


Weave Me

by OrionLady



Series: Figlio Mozzato [1]
Category: Flashpoint (TV)
Genre: Bombs, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Families of Choice, Family, Father-Son Relationship, Found Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mystery, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-19
Updated: 2019-09-19
Packaged: 2020-10-24 06:42:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 34,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20701631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OrionLady/pseuds/OrionLady
Summary: Spike isn't sure when he started feeling like he's drowning. The more distant Greg grows, the more Spike knows he's screwed up.But when he becomes the target of a father's crime, secrets are exposed. Reconciliation looms as an Everest Greg isn't sure they can ever climb.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Slight AU in that Wordy is still on the team. Set late season four.

“Sometimes I think my papa is an accordion. When he looks at me and smiles and breathes, I hear the notes.” ~ _The Book Thief_, Markus Zusak

“You have my son in there.”

Without taking his eyes off Marcus’ Glock, Greg unzipped his Kevlar vest. It landed on the floor with a fatidic thud.

“_Boss?_”

“_Greg?_”

Voices clashed in his ear. Greg ignored them. In fact, he removed his head set, held it up for the men to see, and tossed it by a pile of tarps. Marcus squinted at him.

Greg said it again, surer this time. He removed his sidearm and placed that on the floor too. “You have my son in that room. He’s got auburn hair and big brown eyes so full of wonder and trust that they…”

He swallowed and it tasted like release. Salt too, from the mist slowly filming over his eyes in a cathartic haze. The corners of his lips flipped up.

He huffed a helpless laugh, finally identifying that woollen ball in his chest cavity as it welled up now, soaked in such fondness and purpose that it threatened to choke him.

“That’s my son in there and I’ve loved him longer than I ever realized.” Greg huffed again and maybe it was a laugh or maybe it was a sob but either way he’d never felt this broken open, throbbing, since Dean and his wife left.

“I didn’t know how much he’d mean to me, not at first. From the moment those crinkled eyes locked on me, my life changed. Whether I knew it or not doesn’t change that.”

Greg licked away a tear. “And I blew it. Blew it big time in every way that counted. Put myself first, my own feelings and wants before his.”

Though his voice cracked, Greg held his head high, eye contact firm.

Marcus laughed. Against Greg’s heartfelt sound, this harsh bark was a butterfly knife to the throat. Other men echoed it quietly. Darkly.

Marcus cocked the gun. “You think we’ll just let him go because you waltzed in here and asked nicely?”

Greg shook his head. “No, sir. I’m not asking for that at all.” He sighed, looking away for the first time to glance at the door again. His pulse quickened. “I’m asking you to let me join him.”

The men mumbled in shock.

Greg held out his wrists. “Take me too. Whatever you have to do, just don’t let him be alone.”

_ Let me hold him, _ every instinct demanded.

Marcus stared at him, barrel lowered. “The lengths a father will go to for his son.”

Greg grinned, weak but fiery, and the two shared a knowing look. “You’re somewhat of an expert on that, aren’t you, Marcus?”

The crunch of boots approached from behind. Marcus’ grudgingly respectful look was the last thing Greg saw before it all went dark.

* * *

(_Two weeks ago. Two weeks left._)

It started like this.

“What?” Greg blinked at the receptionist. “Sorry, could you repeat that?”

Then he did so himself, eyes huge—“That’s why they called me? I’ve been down as his next of kin for _two years_?”

He’d thought this was a courtesy call. Because he needed to know if someone on his team was compromised.

The woman eyed him warily. “Yes, sergeant. And we really need to discuss these results with you.”

“Not his mother?”

A pitying look melted the granite lines around her mouth. Greg waved a hand to stop any assumptions.

She nodded. Her eyes were still sympathetic. “He never told you?”

“No.” Greg stared at a dirt smudge on her desk. “No…he didn’t.”

A question of his own occurred to him suddenly, so pressing that it took his breath away. It was at once the most important thing to know, a confirmation of something he’d wondered about for a long, long time.

“Was his mother or father ever down as his next of kin?”

This took the woman a few more seconds of computer clacking to find the appropriate records. Greg was shocked she’d even let him know. This was technically a grey area of medical-patient confidentiality.

_ Probably the vest_, Greg concluded. The sight of it always put people at ease. He’d been on duty when he got the call. Now, at one in the morning, he was glad he’d sent everyone else home for the night early. _They don’t need to know about this._

“Ah.” The woman’s voice helped him refocus. “Here we are. It looks like his mother hasn’t been down as next of kin or medical consent since he was seventeen. As soon as he turned eighteen, it transferred.”

Greg’s hand clenched around his hat, balled up in the fist resting on her desk. “Who?”

She seemed bewildered by the urgency thrumming through his voice. “Uh…it switched a lot, actually. Looks like a college buddy, then a McCoy fellow, then someone named…”

_ Now _ she met Greg’s eyes full on. “It was Lewis Young until two years ago, until he…”

Greg’s face shuttered. He scrubbed a rough hand down his eyes. “Right. Okay. That’s…right.”

“I’m so sorry.”

He nodded, hollow. “Thank you. Can I see him?”

Without waiting for an answer, he marched around the desk towards the hallway. She made a startled noise of protest and jogged around her desk. “Sergeant, please. How much did the nurse on the phone tell you?”

To Greg’s credit, he actually stopped moving. “Something about a bar fight?”

She blinked. “Oh, heavens no! Well, I mean he did throw a punch—clearly put up a struggle—but it wasn’t…we did a toxicology screen, see, and it came back positive.”

Greg stared at her for a long moment.

Oh. _Oh_.

Abruptly, his face drained of colour.

“Whoa!” A paramedic, walking by with a burger in his hand, rushed to swing a chair around. He shoved Greg into it. “Easy there, sarg.”

Greg dizzily wondered how this man knew his rank until he realized it was both on his vest and that he recognized this EMT from past cases. He couldn’t be bothered to remember the man’s name. Only one thought dominated Greg’s world.

He hated it, but he had to know—

“What was it?”

“Sorry?” The woman crouched next to the EMT and frowned. “I didn’t catch that.”

Greg cleared his throat. His voice still rasped. “What drug was it?”

Her face fell. She inhaled a bracing breath and lightly touched his knee. “Rohypnol.”

The paramedic shoved Greg’s head between his knees when he groaned and swore.

The receptionist clucked. “Someone at the bar called an ambulance when they found him in the bathroom. He hadn’t consumed very much, not enough to be knocked out. Just enough to have a wicked headache tomorrow. I think he knew something was wrong the moment he took a drink. He refuses to sleep or even close his eyes with someone else in the room.”

Greg’s stomach constricted in a primal tug.

“Did…” He closed his eyes a moment to gather strength. “Did you administer a kit?”

The receptionist smiled faintly. “Yes. And it came back negative.”

Greg slumped. “Thank God.”

The paramedic stood and chuckled. He took a bite of his dinner. “Indeed. Think you can make the trip on your own?”

In answer, Greg pushed to his feet, jaw hard. He had to do this.

The receptionist led them to the last door in the hall, surprisingly—or unsurprisingly—isolated for privacy. Greg thanked the two with a nod and they backed off to give Greg some space.

He peered into the room, his eyes going soft.

_ Ah, kid_.

He was in his own clothes, oddly, rumpled as they were. The hospital issued gown sat beside him. He had one arm thrown over his eyes, even though the lights were dimmed. An IV threaded into his left arm, which seemed strange at first until Greg spotted the bloody gauze around the right knuckles.

What chilled Greg was the knife from his dinner that he had tucked under his left thigh, the one closest to the door. The nursing staff probably hadn’t even noticed.

_ He doesn’t feel safe_. And he certainly knew how to use that blade, small as it was.

The door was open, but before Greg could knock on the door frame so as not to startle the young man, Spike spoke up.

“For the last time, I don’t want any pain killers. I’ve had enough drugs for one night, doc.”

Greg, for reasons he couldn’t even begin to decipher, felt a flutter in his gut. “I don’t blame you.”

Spike whipped his arm away and squinted. “Boss? Why’re you here?”

There it was again. That sharp, scraping feeling inside his body. Greg kept his movements slow when he walked to the bed.

To anyone else, Spike’s posture was normal, if tired. Greg, however, saw the hyper aware movements and his white knuckled grip around the butter knife. How his eyes tracked the exits.

And Greg’s hands.

_ Unacceptable_.

“Hey,” he said, soft so as not to aggravate the obvious headache. To appear as nonthreatening as possible. “Where else would I be when one of my own is laid low?”

This apparently stumped Spike. He reached over and reapplied an ice pack to his forehead. He looked like a cross between a wide-eyed toddler and a frat boy caught hung over.

Greg smiled. “I’m listed as your medical consent, remember? And you’re not cleared to be staying alone tonight. No driving, no operating a stove or anything else. Okay?”

Spike made a face. “I was drugged three hours ago, boss. It’s wearing off already.”

“Doesn’t matter. Someone just roofied your drink, Spike, tried to…” Greg let out a whoosh of air. “Call it insurance for my peace of mind. You’d be doing _me _a favour.”

Spike perked, his brain catching up. “Does this mean I get to leave?”

“Yes.” Greg shook his head with an amused grin. “It does, as soon as you’re cleared of any complications.”

“Sorry you got called away from our shift.”

“That’s okay.” Greg again eyed the knife. “We were just patrolling anyway. No hot calls, so I ended it early. Wanna tell me why you called in sick today just to go to a bar?”

“Guy can’t go out for a drink on a…” Spike rolled this around in his head. “Thursday—”

“It’s Wednesday, Spike.”

“What, I’m not allowed to drink on a Wednesday night?”

Greg shot him a heavy look.

For a moment Spike’s eyes took on a glazed quality Greg couldn’t read. It made his breath catch.

Spike pulled the ice pack away, slowly, and condensation droplets expressed more than his eyes could, where they ran down his cheeks.

Something in the air shifted. It scared Greg enough for him to gently yet firmly close his hand around Spike’s fist. “Give me the knife, Spike. I promise, no one is going to hurt you. Especially not with me here. Over my rotting corpse does someone lay a hand on you.”

The words were dramatic, vehement. More fitting for an Ed declaration of protectiveness.

But they did the trick and Spike released his shaking hold on the knife. Motions careful, Greg set it far out of arm’s reach on the bedside table.

Spike sighed. His voice was haunted, flat affect. “It’s the anniversary.”

“The anniversary of…?” It hit Greg without warning. Deep shame coursed through him. “Lew. Spike, I’m so sorry. We completely forgot this year.”

“Pretty dumb, huh?” Spike snorted but there wasn’t an ounce of humour in it. “Of all the people to get targeted, it’s me—a _cop_. What are the chances? I wasn’t even talking to anyone at the bar. I went there to be left alone.”

“It’s not your fault, Spike. You didn’t ask for it.” The very idea of that made Greg delirious with fury. He realized finally what that sharp sting in his gut was—anger. Pure, untainted rage. “Not seeing someone slip it in your drink doesn’t make you a bad cop.”

“I know.” Spike rubbed at something on his hand. “My glass was already half empty so when I took a swig, I knew when the bourbon didn’t taste right.”

Greg nodded. Spike was more observant than a watchdog even on his worst day.

“What’s that?” he asked, when Spike wouldn’t stop playing with his left index.

“Huh? Oh.” Spike held up his hand with a baffled look. “Something sticky on my fingers. It’ll come off once I shower, I’m sure. They wouldn’t let me right away, because…”

The reality of it seemed to slam into Spike rapid fire, right before Greg’s very eyes. His skin paled.

“The kit,” he finally managed.

“Yeah,” Greg said, barely above a whisper. “But no one violated you, Spike. Even your clothes…your jeans…had no additional DNA on them. I know you probably don’t want to talk about this now, but did you run into the bathroom because you knew?”

Spike seemed surprised by this query. “Like I said, the taste wasn’t right. And then the room started spinning. I knew I had to get out of there before walking became impossible. My intent was to lock the door.” He frowned. “I don’t know if I succeeded in that plan.”

He hadn’t, but Greg didn’t have the heart to tell him.

Then Spike gazed at his wrapped knuckles. It didn’t seem to be the first time. “I guess I didn’t, if someone got in enough for me to sock them. And before you ask, I don’t want this on my record.”

“Are you sure?”

He met Greg’s eyes full on for the first time. “No report.”

Greg’s heart sank. “Not even to help us catch this bastard?”

Spike shook his head. “I don’t have any memory of his or her face anyway, of anyone at _all_. My memory says I was alone in that bathroom until the EMTs showed up, but clearly I wasn’t.”

“Okay, Spike.” Much as it pained Greg, he understood. “I’ll honor that.”

He drove Spike home with orders from the doctors to keep on bed rest and watch for any vertigo, low blood pressure, or vomiting.

Spike was unsteady on his feet. He took one look at the stairs in Greg’s two storey house and mumbled something about the couch being as comfy as a bed any day.

Greg checked on Dean upstairs—still dead to the world in his cocoon of blankets—and then knelt beside Spike, sprawled on his stomach. Greg wondered how much of this he’d remember in the morning.

He left a bucket next to the arm of the couch, just in case, before spreading a comforter over him. The shoulder muscles were tense under his hand when he rubbed it.

“You’re safe here, Spike. No hidden attackers. No drugs. I promise I won’t give you anything without your consent, even for that killer migraine you’re suffering through.”

Spike still blinked off at some point on his living room wall. Glazed again.

“Spike.” Greg let some of the ache in his heart seep through, listening to it thaw into something tender. “_Spike_, close your eyes. You can close your eyes now.”

Spike’s next words showed how truly out of it he was, when they slurred together sounding small and scared. Greg nearly fell over his heels from the impact of them.

“Not in the bathroom?”

Greg darted closer, willing the tightness to leave his voice. He pressed his forehead briefly to Spike’s. “No, Spike. You got out of the bathroom. No attackers. You’re _safe_ here.”

Spike, at last, closed his eyes.

Greg stood and went still. In the dead silence of his suburb home, hands on his hips, he listened to the faint snores from his son upstairs and melodic breaths of the young man below.

They overlapped, a song otherworldly and foreign.

Something woollen, prickly, balled up under Greg’s rib cage and didn’t dissolve even when he showered and changed for bed. He laid there in the dark, trying and failing to inhale full breaths around it.

It started like this.


	2. Chapter 2

Dean didn’t even bat an eyelash when he stumbled down the stairs in the morning, all bedhead, to see Spike’s lanky limbs draped over the couch. He just yawned and scrubbed his eyes.

“Hey, Spike. You left your soup pot here last time. You still sleeping in, lazybones?” Dean approached the couch and his brows furrowed. “Spike?”

They _did _widen when he saw the bandaged hand. “Is he okay?”

Greg popped his head out of the kitchen, frying pan of bacon in hand. “Err…I’ll know the answer to that if he wakes up this morning.”

Dean swung shocked eyes onto him. Greg realized his mistake. “Not like that. He just had a rough night.”

“Drunk?”

Greg huffed. “I wish.”

“Not helping, Dad.”

“Sorry.” In his mind, Greg sorted through what tell his son. “There was an…incident. No loud noises, okay? Or touching without telling him first.”

Dean’s eyes only grew wider but he nodded. He shuffled off to grab some cereal with his bacon.

Greg saw Spike’s pot on the counter from their latest supper together. It occurred to him that Dean had more exposure to him than anyone else on the team. One of Spike’s books was sitting under the remote, a pair of his sneakers in the closet, he and Dean’s silly doodles on the fridge whiteboard.

_Huh_. Greg set the pan down, utterly dumbfounded. _When did all this happen?_

He shook himself into the comfort zone of taking care of another person. No vomit in the bucket, he was pleased to note, but Spike was paler than the pillow under his head. He didn’t look like he’d budged all night. Greg left out a pair of sweatpants and academy issue sweater for him, along with a towel.

“Are you guys on call today?”

Greg glanced up to see Dean hovering at the living room entrance, eyes worried. Greg’s own eyes reflected back at him. He still hadn’t gotten used to that.

“No,” Greg admitted. “I phoned in and Spike is taking the day off.”

Dean squinted. “So you are too? He can’t just hang out here by himself?”

“In fact, our whole team is off duty for the day. We’ve had a lot of tough calls this month and I’m playing that card to the brass.” Greg hesitated. “Spike’s not allowed to be left on his own right now, not until his system is clear.”

It was more than he wanted to say but it actually made Dean calmer. He seemed to stabilize. “I can watch him for you.”

_He’s too much like me sometimes._

Greg ruffled his son’s hair. “That’s noble of you, Dean, but you have school. Vamoose. Let me take care of our resident tech.”

“You’d better,” Dean called, soft so as not to wake Spike, while he jogged upstairs to get dressed. “He has a terrible sense of self preservation.”

Greg laughed, wishing Spike was awake to hear—and be indignant—about that one. 

“Amen to that.” Greg crouched down. “You should have called me yesterday, Spike.”

He saw no reason to wake Spike and the man was dead asleep. In fact, Greg was a little concerned over how unresponsive he was. He slipped two fingers under Spike’s jaw, where his collar met his ear.

_Pulse is awfully slow._

Still, it wasn’t enough to warrant a hospital trip. His skin was cool but not abnormally so.

Greg pulled the comforter up higher, so it brushed that spiky crop of hair, and used this motion as an excuse to rub the back of his knuckles over Spike’s cheek.

“Alright, Spike. You sleep as long as you need.”

He wanted nothing more than to tear that bar apart, comb CCTV for the man responsible so he could arrange a playdate with Ed’s fists.

But he knew better. He knew better as a cop, and he knew better as Spike’s friend, one who had specifically asked him to leave it alone.

Was it embarrassment staying Spike’s hand? Shame? Fear? For once, Greg didn’t know and that didn’t sit well with him.

He waved Dean off for school and then promptly stood there looking lost. He hadn’t had a day off in so long that he hardly knew what to do with himself.

Cleaning made the most sense. That or some renovations to the upstairs bathroom he’d been meaning to do, like replacing hinges and painting the trim.

But in the end, Greg went with his gut and decided to cook. He wasn’t sure why, but he had the strong impulse to make something.

While a lasagna was in the oven, he sat in the beloved overstuffed armchair across from Spike and got into a Clive Cussler novel. After so much _real_ adrenaline in the field, reading about mountaintop capers and ‘bad guys’ proved entertaining.

The house soon filled with the smell of garlic bread and cheese.

Greg wasn’t sure what changed, but when his eyes flicked up from the book, he saw Spike gazing droopily back at him.

“Hey, bud.” Greg was out of his chair and next to Spike in record time. “How are you feeling?”

Spike opened his mouth to answer—

And promptly went green.

Greg shoved the bucket to Spike’s chest in time for him to curl over it. He sat up fully, dry heaves assaulting his body with the lack of food. They sounded ragged, hoarse.

When he was finished, Greg left to wash out the bucket. There wasn’t much in it, just bile.

“You ready for that shower?” he asked, upon returning. “Can’t feel good to be in those clothes, especially since they laid on the bathroom floor of a bar for part of the night.”

Spike just stared at Greg like he’d never seen him before. “You stayed.”

Greg paused.

“Thanks, boss. For everything. It means a lot. Didn’t cause too much trouble, did I?”

“Of course I stayed.” Greg plopped down next to Spike. “And you gave Dean a scare but he was actually excited to see you, even passed out.”

Spike managed a thin smile. “Thought maybe I’d dreamt all that last night.”

The words had been rehearsed in Greg’s mind all morning. Now that he had the chance to say them, something stayed his tongue.

“Boss?” Spike looked at him, eyes an open book like always. Worried. Tired. Self-conscious. “You okay?”

“That’s my line,” Greg quipped.

Spike rolled his eyes, smile widening.

Greg twisted so he could look his young friend face-on. “I was going to ask you why you switched consent on your records from McCoy to me…but I realized that more importantly: why didn’t you put your parents’ names down?”

Spike’s smile faded. “McCoy wasn’t interested in getting attached, especially once his daughter went into rehab. When he found out, he made me take his name off.”

Greg didn’t take the bait. “That’s not what I asked.”

“And I was Lew’s consent too, it was a mutual choice. He was happy to have my back in that way.”

“Spike?”

“And my father was dying, you know?”

“Spike.”

Spike took a big breath in and let it out. “It smells like Ma’s cooking in here.”

_Trust your gut_, Greg thought, amazed. He’d hoped the smell of cooking would make Spike feel safer. _Talk to me, Spike. Please._

“You switched your medical consent not one month after your eighteenth birthday,” Greg pressed.

There was that question again. He couldn’t force it out.

Spike, if possible, went paler. “You don’t want to be medical consent. Of course. I never talked about it with you. I’ll call the hospital and get them to switch it—”

“Spike, hey. No.” Greg set a hand over Spike’s non-bandaged one. The long fingers stilled their fretting. “I don’t mind a bit. I’m honoured. Just surprised, is all.”

Spike looked down at their hands and then over at the armchair.

“Spike? You have zero obligation to tell me anything. It’s not technically any of my business. But I’m not asking as your boss. I’m asking…”

That woollen ball surged up Greg’s throat without warning, cutting off his air. Heavy. He wheezed around it.

Thankfully, Spike didn’t seem to notice. “Ma wouldn’t have had the fortitude to make tough decisions like that. She didn't like being listed, even when I was a kid.”

Greg didn’t miss Spike’s use of past tense. He finally got his voice working. “And your father?”

Spike didn’t move for a long time. When he finally did look up, the sound of Dean’s footsteps broke the moment and the boy bounded into the room. His cheeks were flushed with autumn wind and soccer cleats flounced against his side.

“It smells amazing in here! Spike, had I known you sleeping over would make made Dad cook, I would have made it happen ages ago!”

Spike laughed and Greg chucked a pillow at his son. For a moment, all was right with the world.

Now if only he could remember how to _breathe_.

* * *

“No, boss, you missed the turn.”

Greg shot a look at Spike, hair dripping from the shower, in his passenger’s seat. His brows shot up. “Aren’t we going to your mother’s place?”

Spike didn’t take his eyes off the road, scooching forward to point at a stoplight ahead. “Take a left. We can still get to the right street from here.”

Greg followed Spike’s directions for another ten minutes until they stopped outside a small, modern looking apartment building. Spike’s car was parked in the lot, where he’d left it in favour of taking a taxi to the bar. Greg unbuckled his seat belt and trundled after Spike up the stairs.

Spike had stayed for supper but insisted on being driven home to sleep in his own bed this time—with profuse promises to call if he felt ill or faint.

He fished a set of keys from his pocket, with that signature robot key chain they’d all come to recognize, and ushered Greg into a renovated apartment.

Filled to bursting with boxes. They were as high as Greg’s nose.

Greg’s eyes bugged. “Spike?”

“Oh! Sorry about the mess. Just moved in last week. Haven’t had a chance to unpack everything.”

“That’s not what I…did you and your mother have a falling out?”

Spike’s head appeared around a stack of wrapped cutlery. “What? No, not at all. She…she needed to be near family, especially now with Pa gone.”

_You _are _family_. But Greg kept quiet.

“Family is everything to us, you know?”

Greg nodded. “I do know.”

Spike held his palms up and bobbed them back and forth, like a set of scales. “Guess just me wasn’t enough to keep her here.”

It finally clicked. Shock electrified Greg’s bones. “She moved back to Italy?”

“We have a lot of extended family over there. With her grieving…it’s what she needed, I guess. Waited around just long enough for me to find a place.”

_She left her own son here. _Greg knew it wasn’t fair to make her the villain in this story, and it certainly wasn’t a surprise given how dedicated she’d been to her husband compared to their son, but he couldn’t stop human nature. _He’s alone._

Given how resigned Spike seemed, maybe he’d been alone a lot longer than Greg noticed.

“But it’s got high speed WiFi!” Spike chirped. “What more does a guy like me need? You want a drink, boss? I’ve got some pop around here somewhere…”

“No, Spike. That’s fine.”

“You know, I remember when we immigrated to Canada.”

_That_ was news. “You do? I thought they came here before you were born.”

Spike shook his head, hair wilder than usual from the shower and humidity in the apartment. He was still insipid but more lucid than he’d been this afternoon. He’d even kept down some lasagna.

“I was five. Had to start kindergarten barely knowing English. Ha! I still remember teaching my second grade teacher how to use the projector.”

They both smiled at that one.

“You ever get in trouble for setting things on fire at school?” Greg thought he knew the answer but he had to ask.

Sure enough, Spike nodded. “I used to play with explosives all the time, just little ones at first. Then bigger. I usually got away with it because I skipped a few grades and had nothing to worry about academically.”

Greg chuckled. “And oh how it comes in handy now.”

Spike held up his burn-scarred fingers. “Quite literally.”

Greg glanced around at the Spartan apartment and quelled the prickly sensation creeping over him again. “Look, if you ever need help unpacking all this stuff—books mostly, I’m guessing—you let me know. I’d be happy to.”

Spike’s eyes lost some of their taut lines. “That would be great, boss. Thanks.”

Greg took the long drive home, just for an excuse to mull over why the offer had tasted so ashy in his mouth. Why his heart kept skipping painful beats.


	3. Chapter 3

Over the next few calls, Spike barely had time to think. Something about the season, the promise of a new school year, made kids crazy.

And not just kids. They’d had three domestic violence calls in the last month alone.

Nobody asked about the unprompted day off, only to praise Greg about all they’d managed to get done and appreciation for time with family.

“_Spike? We got a name on this mystery sister?_”

Spike shook himself back to the present and the familiarity of the command truck. He pulled up their jumper’s file. Ah, now the college kid’s suicidal climb to the top of the train bridge made sense.

“Boss, he feels responsible for his sister’s death because he was the one who got them lost in the woods that night.”

“_How’d she die?_” Sam asked.

“There was a storm, flash flooding. She drowned when the river swept her away.”

“_Running from their parents?_” Boss clarified.

Spike’s lips thinned. That was more of a judgement call, not exactly in the file. “Probably, boss. There had been a few domestic violence calls to the residence, but nothing stuck.”

“_He was trying to save her_,” Jules realized.

“That was probably his reasoning, yes.” Spike listened to Greg talk the man down through his earpiece. “Boss, his girlfriend is also running from her abusive family. Maybe that brought it all back. Survivor guilt.”

An hour later and Boss walked back to them with the young man safely in tow. After passing him off to the EMTs, Greg took off his hat and blew out a breath.

Spike grinned, clapping a hand on Greg’s shoulder. “Good job out there, boss.”

Ed and Jules echoed this sentiment. Greg’s eyes tracked Spike, roaming over his face, a laser focus. Spike tried not to show his confusion.

“Yep,” said Greg, shrugging off Spike’s grip. “Another successful call. Let’s debrief tomorrow, okay?”

Spike stood there, blinking, and slowly lowered his hand. Too busy packing up, the others hadn’t noticed. He watched Greg walk away. The man slipped his hat back on and it hid his expression.

_This call probably just shook him up_, Spike reasoned. _The subject kind of looks like an older version of Dean. You entered his space before he had time to catch his breath._

Equilibrium regained, Spike nodded to himself.

Yes, that had to be it.

* * *

It didn’t happen again until two days later.

“Dismissed, team.” Greg signed off on the report. “Have a good weekend. I don’t want to see any of you in here until Monday.”

Rounding the table, Spike shucked his Kevlar. “Hey, boss! If you’ve got a minute, could we go over that new security system? The tests for it are coming up.”

“You’re being tested on it?” That got Greg’s attention. “On whose orders?”

“Don’t worry, boss. I signed up for the class exam myself.” Spike cleared his throat, playing with his vest for an excuse to move. “Got to stay sharp, right?”

“Spike…that night, the museum shooting…it wasn’t your fault. Ed blew out the door and I’m okay with property damage if it saves lives.”

Spike couldn’t quite make eye contact. “Oh, I know. That night just made me realize I need to stay on top of technological advancements before they’re a problem in the field.”

“How proactive of you.”

“So…a few minutes, boss? Just five minutes to pick your brain?”

Greg sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Spike’s heart rate jumped.

“Could we do this Monday, Spike? Dean’s soccer game is at six.”

“Oh yeah, of course!” Spike checked his watch and fell quiet.

Greg read the silence anyway. “I just want to arrive early, be there in case Dean needs anything.”

“Of course,” Spike said again, waving. “Have a good weekend, boss.”

He wore a smile on the way to his locker that slipped the further down the hall he walked. Once alone, he again checked his watch.

_3:00 pm._

They’d worked the morning shift, getting off late, in fact. He’d take home the security manual and figure it out himself.

Once that thought sunk in, Spike could have kicked himself. _I bet supervisors aren’t allowed to influence their officers before the test! He was too nice to tell you that him helping would be a breach of protocol._

Spike chuckled at his own silly oversight all the way to his car.

* * *

(_One week left_.)

It started like this.

“Team One! Bomb spotted in Centennial Park!”

Spike didn’t even bother halting the treadmill, just hopped off and ran to Winnie’s desk. “Bomb? Not our usual ‘suspicious package’ caller?”

Winnie’s eyes were sharp. She listened to something in her ear. “The groundskeeper says it’s definitely a bomb. It’s got wires protruding from canisters…and it’s—sir, are you sure?”

Ed sidled up too and held his breath.

Winnie tapped Spike’s arm. “He says it’s _ticking_.”

That was enough for Ed. “Gear up! Move!” 

They made it there in record time, especially with Ed’s driving. Greg had assigned Spike to the man’s lead vehicle so they could arrive faster. Spike tracked the groundskeeper’s phone to a more secluded area of the park. Ed totally ignored the fact there were no roads and barrelled right onto the grass.

“Uh…are we sure this is right?” Spike voiced what Ed’s perplexed face also read.

“_Positive_,” said Winnie. “_He should be right up ahead._”

“There he is.” Ed pointed. Sure enough, Spike spotted a distressed man standing near the gravel footpath Ed parked along. “Spike, can you get Babycakes close enough through the tall grass?”

Spike hopped out. “She’s designed for off road.” He made a face at all the trees surrounding the field. “Me, on the other hand…”

Jules snorted in his ear. “_Romans and woods?_”

“Don’t get me started,” said Spike, steering his girl through the grass. He definitely didn’t want a repeat of being set on fire.

“It’s over there!” The groundskeeper called. “Right near the tree line at the back of the field!”

Manipulating the controls, Spike cleared a path through the rushes. It was a longer distance than anyone expected, almost half a kilometer away. When Babycakes’ camera finally landed on the bomb, Spike moaned.

“Spike?” Greg parked and made it to his side. “What are we looking at?”

“If I’m right,” said Spike, “this is a dirty bomb, boss.”

Wordy nudged his shoulder. “And you’re always right.”

“What’s the minimum safe distance?” asked Sam.

Spike cocked his head. “Actually…based on the tiny canisters, only about a hundred meters.”

There was a beat while they digested that one.

“Are you sure?” Jules asked. “This is the most deserted section of Centennial Park imaginable—I didn’t even know this field was here. No human impact.”

On a hunch, Spike pulled up city maps in his phone. “Except that a water supply main runs right under our feet. This is a main artery for the water branches—and it’s about to pump in twenty minutes.”

Everyone swore. 

“Alright.” Greg puffed out a breath. “Jules, find me municipal workers with a grudge, someone who knows about pump schedules. Wordy, see if there are any cameras around who caught our bomber. Spike?”

“On it.” He guided the robot back and shouldered his duffel bag. “Looks like a crude design. Shouldn’t take too long.”

Greg nodded and turned to follow Wordy to the truck. 

“Be careful,” said Ed, with a funny glance at Greg.

Spike gave a two fingered salute. “Always.”

He waded through the grass, surprised at how high it reached, nearly to his belt. He was thankful for the thick soled boots and pants tucked into them.

In all, the trip took seven minutes on foot. When he glanced over his shoulder, the team looked like black blips on the horizon. It threw him for a loop, being so far from his people.

He was reminded abruptly of the time he learned to swim, being thrown in the deep end while his father stayed along the far edge. The panic before he started to tread.

Forcing himself to turn back around, Spike noted that the sun was hanging low.

_Why did this have to be a supper time call?_

Daylight was always preferable with bomb calls.

“Bomb in sight,” Spike reported. “Beginning defusion assessment now.”

He knelt in front of the device, pleased with the absence of trigger plates. It really was just a mom-and-pop bomb.

Rigged with chemicals.

Or at least, the bio hazard containers and their sheen of white certainly looked like RDX. There was no timer but the ticking was loud, an old fashioned, egg timer sound.

Spike carefully circled the bomb and then stared at it from the front again. His jaw dropped.

_It can’t be. My eyes are playing tricks._

“Guys?” He got low, on all fours. Peered under it and around it, squinting, just to be sure.

“_What’s up, Spike?_” Spike licked his lips, ignoring the fact that it was Ed in his ear and not Greg. “_You’ve been awfully quiet downrange._”

Spike even dared to poke at one of the yellow plastic wires coiled around the detonator.

“_Hey! You know better!_”

Spike jolted, forgetting about Ed and his high powered binoculars. “Sorry, but…”

“_Spike?_” Jules this time.

“It’s…guys, it’s totally fake.”

Silence. Spike, heart thundering, decided to risk it—he lifted the plate.

“_Are you sure?_” Finally, Greg’s voice.

“Positive.” Spike laughed, more of a breathless, incredulous sound. “Seeing as I just lifted the detonator plate and I should be dead right now. It’s an empty plastic container. With an honest-to-God _metronome_ inside.”

“_Metronome?_” Sam asked.

“_One of those beat counters musicians use_,” Ed explained. “_I’d know it anywhere, thanks to hours of hearing it with the cello_.”

Spike grinned. “Clark is getting quite good on that thing.”

“_Focus, please_.” The uncharacteristic command from Greg had Spike’s spine straightening. “_Are the chemicals real?_”

Good point.

Spike pulled out a strip and swiped it along the canister, then fed it through the machine. It beeped after a minute.

“Negative, boss. Low levels of cleaning solvent, but nothing else.”

“_So what’s in the canisters?_” Wordy asked.

Spike leaned down, sniffing. “Sugar, is what it smells like. Mixed with Javex powder. I can do an official test back at the lab.”

Sam groaned. “_You’ve got to be kidding me._”

“_And you’re sure?_” Boss demanded.

“This is literally someone’s idea of a Little Tykes bomb, boss. Like someone watched old cartoons on what bombs look like and tried to recreate it.”

“_Alright, Spike,_” said Ed. “_Let’s take it back to the lab for evidence._”

The team’s voices layered into something more relaxed, bantering now that the threat was proved false.

For some reason, Spike felt more uneasy than before. When it was a straightforward bomb call, he had a clear path, knew exactly what to expect, at least of himself and his job.

_Why would someone plant a fake bomb in the middle of nowhere?_

A gentle clacking sound snapped Spike’s head up. He drew his sidearm before he could even gasp. His eyes darted around the foliage, shadows lengthening through the trees with the setting sun.

No sign of an attacker.

Spike almost called out but thought better of it. The last thing he needed was the team making fun of him for shooting at a squirrel, jumpy. 

He put his gun away but stayed motionless a minute longer. Eyeing the tree line. The patch of grass where he’d heard the out-of-place sound.

Nothing.

Feeling shaky, and therefore ridiculous since this was a _fake bomb call_, Spike scowled at himself and gingerly lifted the prop. It felt wrong to even call it a ‘bomb.’ It was a set piece, for all intents and purposes.

Motive was the burning question now. Spike, the police officer part of himself still online, mulled this over.

The vulnerable, fleshy insides of his heart were consumed with the sudden realization that he hadn’t called out because of Greg.

_I’m already on thin ice for not telling him about the next of kin thing. He must be frustrated by that._

Spike didn’t want to seem needier any more than he must already.

He made it all the way back without incident, smiling along to all the quips—“I bet my daughter could help with that” and “careful! That’s a tough one!” and “guess the bad guys thought you needed an easy day, Spike”—while placing the device in their bomb disposal van.

Even once safely on the ground, _right there_ with them and having his hair ruffled by Wordy, Spike couldn’t get the image out of his head.

Of his father, standing on the edge of the pool.

And Spike was just a kid again, flailing around in distress while Pa didn’t lift a finger to do anything about it.


	4. Chapter 4

“_Did you get it?_”

In the woods surrounding Centennial Park, a man rose from his stomach and smiled into the phone at his ear. “Done and done.”

“_He didn’t notice?_”

The man, late forties with dark hair and piercing green eyes, was dressed head to toe in camouflage, complete with a hat of bulrushes to hide his white skin and greying hair.

He snickered. “Thought the poor guy was going to shoot me for a second, but no, he didn’t.”

“_His loss._”

“Hey now.” The man full out laughed now. He felt freer to do so with the SRU vans long gone. “Be nice to your old man. Better yet—be nice to the one who’s going to fix everything.”

There was a silence on the other end of the phone and the man’s eyes went bright. “It’ll be over soon, Marcus. I promise.”

His hand clenched around a long-lensed camera, one used for safari shoots. The viewfinder screen showed a crystal clear shot of the tech’s face against the backdrop of a fluffy, overcast sky.

“_And what do we say about promises?_”

The man laughed wetly. His voice wobbled. “That they’re like hard taffy—sweet but unbreakable.”

“_There he is._”

The man rolled his eyes. “I thought I was supposed to be comforting you.”

“_You know you love me._”

A tear cut through the green paint along the man’s cheeks. “Yes, I do. More than I’ll ever be able to express. This is just a start, Marcus.”

“_Can’t wait to hug you_.”

The man ducked his head. He’d go to the ends of the earth for this boy. Laying in some grass for a few hours was nothing.

“One week, son. I promise. Just one week.”

“_One week…I can do that._”

* * *

Spike came into work the next day to see a cardboard box at the foot of his locker. It elicited more emotion from him than a deadly bomb. He stared at it for a moment.

Then he recognized his shoes, a few books, and some casserole pans. His soup pot. A drone he’d rigged to go with Dean’s science project.

“I actually got around to cleaning my house.”

Spike turned at Greg’s voice.

He seemed in a good mood this morning. It was a nice change, considering he hadn’t let Spike touch him since that suicide call last week. It stung, both of them being warm people.

The man smiled. “Figured you’d like your stuff back now that you’ve moved. Your own place!”

Spike nodded absently, still trying to read Greg’s face. “My stuff.”

“Exactly!”

They patrolled for the day and when Spike returned that night, he took the box and put it in the back seat of his car. In the rear view mirror, one of his slippers glared out.

Spike sat in the parking lot for a long time, long after everyone else had driven away, and stared at that slipper.

It said much more than he wanted to hear.

* * *

“Hey, Dad?”

Greg looked up from re-hinging the bathroom door. The paint was practically calcified and he couldn’t get the screw to manually push in.

_Might be time for the big guns soon. _He hadn’t used a power drill in ages.

“What’s up, Dean?” His boy shuffled at the door, feet uneasy. Eyes clouded. He and Clark were night and day, just like Greg and Ed. Two oddly poetic friendships. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, I just had a question.”

Greg leaned back against the sink. “Shoot.”

“You know I’m a good cook, right?”

Greg angled his head to better look his son in the eye. “That’s your question?”

“No, I’m getting there.”

Greg’s lips quirked up. “Taking the scenic route, huh?”

“Shut up.” But Dean couldn’t fight a grin either. “Well?”

“Yes, of course you’re a good cook. Much better than I am, if we’re being honest.”

“Plus, you never have time.”

Greg was about to make another joke when he caught the intense gaze Dean had pinned him with. Something was brewing inside that head. Something important.

“That’s true,” said Greg. “I’m just out of practice. Haven’t had to cook for myself in a long time. Once you came to live with me…”

He was broadsided by emotion, even though he’d said this lots of time and it had been eight months.

“Now I have to cook more often,” he finished, fond and thankful Dean waited for him to continue. “Why? What’s your real question?”

“Would you have people over more often if I did the cooking and you didn’t have to worry about it?”

Now Dean’s voice matched his eyes. He’d make a good interrogator, Greg thought distantly.

“That isn’t what holds me back,” Greg said at length. “I’m tired after a long shift, and my schedule can be unpredictable, so I have to plan hosting carefully.”

Dean thought about this and his frown only deepened.

“That’s not your question,” Greg asked slowly, “…Is it?”

Dean shook his head. His lips mushed together and then stilled, as if he’d worked up enough nerve. “Why doesn’t Spike come over for dinner anymore?”

Like a burr stuck to his diaphragm, Greg couldn’t take in a full breath. For being a veteran at reading people, he was helpless to name this tax on his lungs.

“Dad?”

“We’ve had a lot of stressful calls lately. Neither of us has felt like entertaining guests, Dean.”

Dean leaned his bushy forehead on the doorframe. “Aren’t stressful calls the times when you’re most likely to invite him home? People shouldn’t be alone when they’re hurting.”

Greg stood, cupping his son’s cheek. “It’s not that simple.”

“You know, when I was little, I always wanted to be a big brother.”

Greg’s hand dropped in surprise. “You did?”

“For sure. I couldn’t wait for you guys to give me a baby brother.” Dean smiled, that toothy one that always made Greg melt. “But having Spike around made me realize that maybe _being_ the little brother would be okay too.”

Something inside Greg completely seized at these words. He went so far as to raise a hand to rub at his chest.

Dean must have seen something shutting down in his expression. “Dad—”

“There’s no need for all this. Spike’s not hurting.”

Lightning in his eyes, Dean pulled away from the door. “Could have fooled me.”

* * *

“You’re still here?”

Spike’s head jerked up from the debriefing table. “Was’at?”

Jules frowned down at her friend. “I’d ask why you’re sleeping on the job, Spike, but our shift ended thirty minutes ago. Go home.”

“Right.” She watched him blink away the fog. Crinkle marks from the manual, acting as a pillow, lined his cheek. “Sorry. I’m…yeah. Home.”

“You sleeping okay?”

Spike blinked up at her with those big, puppy dog eyes. They warmed something in her chest.

“Sure,” he said. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“That’s what I’m asking,” she insisted.

“Just studying.” He gestured to the thick book in front of him. “Gotta pass this exam.”

“It’s not required, right?”

“No, but it’s a matter of professional pride. I want to do my job the best I can.”

Tentative, Jules’ hand made it to the nape of Spike’s neck. Gently, she began to knead her fingers into his muscles. She was careful not to let her nails catch or dig in.

He was stiff at first and then he sagged in the chair. She didn’t miss the fact that he was in Boss’s usual spot at the head of the table. “You always do your best, Spike. But we love you either way."

His eyes went shiny. He blinked very fast.

She kissed the top of his prickly head. “G’night, Spike.”

“…Night, Jules.”

* * *

(_Four days to go_.)

It started like this.

“Hey, boss.” Spike jogged to catch up with Greg in the mass locker room exodus. “Look, I know you’re probably busy. But I really could use a hand unpacking.”

Greg grit his teeth. “Not tonight, Spike.”

“Sure! Sorry about that.”

“It’s nothing personal,” said Greg. “I just have a meeting with the top brass to debrief on some of our most recent cases. Still can’t solve the mystery of our fake bomb. That’s worrying the people upstairs.”

“Makes sense,” Spike placated.

Greg was gone before the words had barely left his mouth. A stack of case files bulged under Greg’s arm and he’d kept the uniform on. Not a good meeting, then. 

Spike signed out for the night with a quiet sigh.

_Stop being a pest_, he berated himself. _You shouldn’t have asked. He’s under enough strain without you making it worse._

“I’ll help you unpack.”

Spike whirled at the voice.

Dean sat in one of the rolling chairs next to Winnie’s desk, twirling around while staring at the ceiling. She’d wandered off for a coffee and everyone else on the team had left for the night.

“Dean? What are you doing here?”

Dean looked upside down at Spike when the tech leaned over him. “Spinning in a chair.”

Spike snorted. “Sounds like fun.”

“Riveting.”

“Waiting for your dad to drive you home?”

“Something like that. He’s coming to my game later, after all the meetings. Did I tell you we made it to the regional finals?”

Spike couldn’t help but grin at the witty kid. “Congratulations, man! You must be good. What position?”

“Goalie. Lots of standing around for my dad to watch.”

“Hey.” Spike grabbed the arm of the chair, swinging Dean around to face him right side up. “My mom once arrived to my elementary school play an hour early just so she could video tape me playing a dancing tree stump. Parents care.”

Dean sat up. “Really? You mean, somewhere, there’s blackmail material?”

“And I was the best tree stump in the play.”

“I’ll bet.”

“Okay, so I was the _only_ tree stump,” Spike admitted. “But I owned that part.”

“Yeah, right. _Sure _you did.”

“It wasn’t my fault I lost to Millie and her ballet training for the part of the dancing star!”

Dean giggled and Spike couldn’t help but join in. The boy looked like Greg when he laughed, eyes crinkled and full of a kind of music, the notes of humanity that some people craved to hear their whole lives.

And boss had so much to give. _So _much. It baffled Spike sometimes.

“Want me to drive you home or to your game?” he offered.

Dean shook his head. “Nah. I want to help you open some boxes.”

“A teenage boy wants to help me shelve all my books?” This took Spike aback. “What’s the catch?”

Dean pretended to consider this but Spike could tell by the spark in his eye that he’d already decided. “You have to cook me dinner, Officer Scarlatti. I’m sixteen—I’m always starving.”

Spike shook the boy’s hand. “You’ve got a deal, Mr. Parker.”

Dean texted his father, though Spike explained he probably had his phone off for the debriefings.

“Seat belt,” Spike ordered, once they hopped in the car.

“Yes, _mom_.”

“I’m a police officer. It’s blasphemy for me to tell a teenager—especially one who just earned his license—not to buckle up.”

Dean grinned. “You’re so cool until you say stuff like that.”

“Uh-huh. Lap it up, hot shot goalie. Do you want to eat tonight?”

Dean raised his hands in surrender. “My seat belt is on! I admit defeat!”

“They always do.”

“Pfft. Nerd.” Dean shoved his shoulder. Then he perked up. “Hey, will you teach me how to hot wire a car?”

Spike spluttered. “What makes you think I even know how to hot wire a car?”

Dean dipped his head to shoot him a skeptical look. “Are you kidding me right now? I am talking to Spike, the tech legend of Toronto?”

“Fine.” Spike caved a little. “Only for educational purposes. Like science fairs. Or when you might be lost in the middle of nowhere.”

Dean pumped his fist with the enthusiasm only a teenage boy can muster. “Yes!”

“And only if you place all my books in alphabetical order. Ascending. By author _and _title.”

Spike snickered at the sight of Dean’s stricken face.

They pulled up and Dean went quiet at the fact it wasn’t his mother’s usual place but didn’t ask. Spike watched his serious little brow, how it furrowed just like Greg’s. The kid bore too much of what others were feeling.

“Voila.” Spike unlocked his door and swept out an arm. “Benvenuto nella mia casa.”

“Whoa!” was Dean’s first declaration upon seeing all the boxes. He did a slow turn around the apartment. “You sure do love to read.”

“Understatement of the year.” Spike toed off his shoes. “Keeps me going.”

Dean went quiet again, though Spike had no idea why.

“You don’t even have any furniture.”

“Not _yet_. So, what are we thinking for supper? Pasta? Casserole?”

Dean leaned his elbows on the island. “Your homemade soup?”

Spike snapped his fingers. “An inspired idea, my good sir! How do you feel about goulash?”

“That’s a little far north for you, isn’t it?” Dean’s cheeky grin grew.

“Hardee-har. Mock the Italian. I’ll have you know my goulash was a hit at the last team potluck.”

“Then I’m in.” Dean clapped his palms on the counter. “Where do I start?”

Over the next hour, Spike cooked while Dean knifed open box after box of books and sheets and old photos. Spike didn’t truly care where he placed them but Dean did his best to organize the long row of shelves in the living room. 

It was an open concept apartment, so Spike got a kick out of watching the teen from his spot at the stove. How his head popped up and down, hair swishing in front of his eyes.

The sight was oddly endearing.

“Smells good!” Dean called.

“Then get your sweaty butt over here to eat some. Your game’s in an hour.”

Dean didn’t need a second prompting, hopping up onto a stool at the island. He swiped coils of wet hair away from his eyes. The two clacked spoons and then dug in.

“Dean, I really appreciate your help. These boxes have been a nightmare to come home to. You didn’t have to.”

Dean shrugged. “I wanted to. Plus, I miss having you around.”

Spike hid how unexpected that sentiment was under the guise of going to grab some pepper for the goulash.

“Well, you’re welcome here anytime.”

That seemed to genuinely delight Dean. Maybe he was lonely in that big house all by himself. Spike’s heart panged.

“Your dad really does love going to your games, Dean. There’s nowhere else he’d rather be than at your side.”

Dean turned red. He took a huge bite for an obvious chance to think about what to say. Spike let him, content to wait the teen out.

“I know this whole ‘dad’ thing threw him. I didn’t exactly give him any warning.”

Spike shook his head to stop that thinking in its tracks. “No, Dean. It didn’t throw him. He’s wanted this relationship with you for as long as I’ve known him. It’s all he’s wanted.”

Dean’s eyes watered. At first Spike was touched—then startled when he went, not red, but white.

Very white.

“Dean?”

Dean’s hand flew to his throat. Spike was out of his seat in an instant.

Everything happened at once.

Dean toppled off his stool and made a thin, reedy choking sound Spike knew would haunt him for years. It sent a bolt of octane adrenaline straight through to his toes.

“Dean?” Spike fell to his knees and turned Dean on his side. “_Dean_? Can you hear me?”

His lips had swelled up but instead of pink and swollen, they mottled a calico purple.

The boy pointed to his throat. His eyes squeezed shut and he tried to gasp.

Then the reedy sounds _stopped_. 


	5. Chapter 5

For the second time in as many weeks, Greg found himself running through a hospital.

Tears blurred his vision and his collar was soaked with them. His phone had been off and it was Winnie, wild eyed, who’d burst in on the meeting and told him what happened, that Spike and Dean were in an ambulance en route.

It was a different receptionist from last Wednesday, but he took one look at Greg’s face and uniform and pointed. “We have him in emerg. Room eight.”

Greg knew where that was, putting on a burst of speed.

It should have been par for the course but the sight that greeted him was not what he expected:

Dean, sleeping peacefully in the bed, and Spike in the visitor’s chair, bent over his knees with his hair sticking up where he’d been raking his hands through it.

“Boss!” Spike darted up when he spotted Greg. His voice was raw. “They got him stabilized with some epinephrine. I’m so sorry, boss. I swear, I had no idea—”

Greg pushed past him to bend over his sleeping boy. His son looked fine other than some paleness to his cheeks. Faint circles had also appeared under the eyes. 

“Sir?” A nurse poked her head in. “Only family allowed in with patients. Now that Mr. Parker’s father is here you need to leave. I can’t debrief him with you here.”

Greg realized she was addressing Spike.

Spike let out a frustrated cry, his eyes welling up. “What? No! I want to make sure he’s okay.”

The wool ballooned inside Greg until his vision whited out from the pressure of it. He thought he might tear in half. Something inside of him snapped with a force to rival steel, a ringing sound that crashed over him in bombastic waves.

“I’ll escort him out, ma’am. Thank you.”

Spike whipped betrayed eyes on him. “Boss—”

Greg took hold of Spike’s elbow and marched him out, gingerly shutting the door to keep Dean asleep. Spike took the hint but a crimson flush crawled up the young man’s neck.

Spike tore out of his reach once they were far enough away in the hall. “Boss, I have every right to see him.”

“No, you don’t.” Greg’s voice was hushed, controlled, but somehow it was angrier than he’d ever heard himself. “You really don’t.”

Spike stood his ground. “I feel responsible. I won’t be able to rest until he’s okay.”

“You didn’t know, Spike.” Greg’s chest heaved. “That’s what you don’t understand—I’m his own father and I had to call his _mother_ to find out my son has an eggplant allergy. Because I _didn’t know_.”

Tears slipped across his quivering jaw, shuddering with rage and helplessness.

He pointed an accusing finger. “I know the names of all your cousins but I didn’t know about my son’s _life threatening _allergy. I don’t know his favourite color or how he got that scar on his knee. But I know _your_ favourite food.”

Spike flinched back as if slapped. “Please, boss. I just meant—”

“No. Go home.” Greg touched Spike’s shoulder and to anyone else it would’ve looked like a bracing gesture, but it might as well have been a shove. “You heard the nurse. Family only.”

Spike didn’t say one more word, his eyes swimming, but the Grand Canyon had cracked open between them and Greg felt it down to his bones.

“_Go_, Spike.”

And he did.

Greg stood there long after Spike’s form shrunk in the distance, quietly opened the stairwell door, and disappeared.

If anything, the ball inside Greg started pulsing. Burning. Searing him from the inside out.

He wondered seriously for a moment if he’d died.

It couldn’t hurt more than this.

* * *

Twenty miles away, in the Toronto East Detention Centre, a janitor finished his night rounds.

His arms and eyes were tired where he pushed at a cleaning cart. Despite the fact that prisoners did most of the cleaning, outside staff were needed to clean more sensitive areas like control rooms and archives.

However, even his aching feet couldn’t rival the heaviness of a hundred dollar bill in his pocket.

The inmates were quiet. Sleep came easily to most men in here, thanks to strict, self-imposed exercise regimes and labour shifts.

The guards too, in their languid pacing, watched everything with half lidded eyes.

The janitor, on the other hand, was wide awake when he approached cell 314. His steps didn’t slow a bit, but he kept an eagle eye on the guard until she turned the corner.

_Bingo._

He coughed twice, one high. The other low in pitch. A face appeared at the mesh window of 314.

A young face.

The janitor opened a tiny rectangle in the door, for trays of food. He slid in a small package, wrapped in a custodial jumpsuit.

“We can’t do it tonight? Jump ahead of schedule?”

The janitor shook his head. “Your father says he needs more time. Three days.”

“Three days. Thanks, man.”

Then the janitor was gone. He signed out and fingered his crisp new bill all the way home. For some reason, he couldn’t bring himself to spend it.

At least not for another three days…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ouch. This one hurt to write.


	6. Chapter 6

“Boss, what are we looking at?” Ed’s driving bordered on insane sometimes, enough for even Spike to hold the overhead handle for support. And this was coming from _him_, the only other person on the team with tactical driving certification. “I hear more gunfire.”

“_It’s a gang war, Eddie_,” said Greg in their ears. “_You’ll be Bravo One._”

Ed and Spike shared a look.

“With Sam?” Ed asked. It sounded innocent but some of the confusion read in his eyes.

“_Negative. I want Jules in the truck with me to profile this psycho leader. Spike’s your second. Sam, Wordy—you’re Bravo Two._”

Spike knew he’d blown it. These words only confirmed it, along with the icy silence around him that morning in the locker room. Everyone had been all over Greg anyway, asking how Dean was or if he needed anything.

Word got around fast.

_He probably doesn’t even want me on the team anymore. I don’t blame him._

Spike hadn’t slept at all last night, and he felt some of it weigh on his shoulders now. Guilt. Anger with himself. Hunger, because the smell of the apartment turned his stomach and he couldn’t stand it.

“You got it, boss.” Ed pushed the pedal and Spike deliberately refused to look at him. “Spike, you okay with that?”

“Doesn’t matter if I am. I follow orders.”

Ed tipped his head back and forth. “It’s a good answer, even if I don’t like it. As your team leader I approve and back off. As your friend, I call bull crap.”

Spike sighed. “I need to focus right now or we’ll both get shot.”

Ed, to Spike’s overwhelming relief, let it be. He said nothing more, though Spike could almost feel his mind working.

Once on site at the gang-controlled warehouse, Ed stayed Spike’s loading of the rifle with a shockingly gentle hand to his arm. He’d taken off his glove, so it was warm, and he squeezed a little. “I left my sniper scope in the truck last time. Can you grab it?”

Spike stared at him. “Should I just go along with that blatant lie or…?”

“Yes.” Ed nodded with the barest of smiles. “And I don’t lie to my teammates.”

_Follow orders,_ Spike reminded himself.

It was a brief moment of familiarity to be jogging to the truck and Spike let himself enjoy it.

That comfort evaporated at Greg’s irritated look when he spotted Spike. It was the first eye contact they’d made since last night. They both opened their mouths when, wonder of all wonders—

There was the scope. Sitting right next to the computer. Ed had been telling the truth, if an orchestrated one.

_And people accuse Ed of being all brawn._

Greg followed Spike’s eyes and shook his head. “Tell Eddie to be more careful.”

Spike nodded, not trusting his voice, and picked it up. Jules hadn’t arrived in the truck yet and Spike wished she would, so he wouldn’t have to be alone with Greg. It made him uneasy. He turned to leave.

“Spike?” Greg took off his hat—and his earpiece. Spike removed his as well. “I’m sorry for getting angry last night.”

“You were a scared parent,” Spike whispered. “I get it.”

Greg shook his head. “Doesn’t make it right. What happened wasn’t your fault. Dean confessed he didn’t know goulash had eggplant in it or he would have told you. I know you’d never do anything to harm him.”

Spike wagged his head, as if he could physically erase that abhorrent thought. “I’d give him my life, boss.”

“I know you would. Thank you for taking care of him.”

Spike’s knees felt weak. He couldn’t force his voice louder than its raspy murmur. “Any time. Is he okay?”

“He took the rest of the week off school. More shaken up than anything.” Greg broke their gaze. “I don’t hold you responsible at all, Spike.”

With that, he slipped his hat and earpiece back in and waved Jules over from Sam’s side. Spike made his way back to Ed. He handed him the scope and Ed looked much too pleased with himself.

“You good?” he asked.

_Am I?_

“Sure,” Spike said, for Ed’s benefit.

For some reason, Greg’s words only made Spike feel worse. Greg was still cool with him, keeping a stoic distance and only making eye contact when completely necessary.

_Since he’s not mad about last night—that means his problem is with __me_ _as..._me_._

Spike wondered if he’d ever stop feeling like the earth was quaking under his feet. He took a long breath and followed Ed.

“Get ready to breach,” Ed murmured. “In three…two…one—SRU put the guns down!”

The man’s shouting, of all things, set Spike’s head on straight. He spotted a Sig aimed at Ed’s forehead.

“Weapons down!” Spike hollered.

The man loaded and Spike fired before he could. Ed glanced back at him, wide eyed.

The gang leaders resisted arrest. No surprise there.

“Spike,” Ed ordered. “Circle around!”

“Copy.” Spike switched the flashlight on his automatic and fired a return volley for the barrage coming at them. The men all went down and quiet reigned. Gunpowder smoke tickled the inside of Spike’s nose. “Subjects subdued. Checking for casualties.”

Across the warehouse floor, Spike watched the cue ball of Ed’s head disappear as he too checked the neck pulses of fallen gang members.

“_Can we call this open and shut?_” Jules asked.

“I’d say.” Ed shook his head at Spike. “No survivors on my end. They all fired with the intent to kill, head shots. Trying to keep us away from their cargo.”

“I’ve got one!” Spike called. “Still alive, pulse steady. I clipped him in the shoulder.”

“_Sending in EMS_,” Boss confirmed.

Spike stepped away from the young man and that’s when it all went to hell.

Shots rained down from high on the walkway overhead, a crackle fire hailstorm speaking of an assault rifle, automatic. A bubble of fire popped in Spike’s rib cage. He grunted. 

Spike ducked behind a munitions crate. Frantic voices shrieked in his ear. One, mutedly panicked, rose above the rest.

“_Status, Team One!_” Greg snapped._ “Status! Give me—_”

“No harm, though I’m peeved.” Ed panted. He leveled the scope to his eye. “Sir! We’re with the police—put the rifle down!”

Another burst of gunfire answered.

Ed growled. “Our ‘psycho leader’ is trying to kill us using one of this new shipment. I have a shot.”

“_Take it._” Boss didn’t even hesitate. “_Scorpio._”

There was a breathless beat, that moment of free fall when the airplane noses down, the roller coaster tips you over the edge, your hair floats upwards as you miss a step. Spike was always fascinated by the change in the air when Ed slowed his heart rate down.

His stomach flipped.

With a muffled pop, their sneak attack shooter and his shiny—stolen—gun clattered to the ground.

“Spike?” Ed’s head popped up. “Spike, what’s your status?”

Spike regained his breath. It felt like a slow motion scene had accelerated to normal speed. “No harm. Vest took it.”

“You did good, Spike,” said Ed. “One of those guys was going to kill me before you took him out.”

The next five minutes were a blur, EMS treating the one surviving gang member. Ed being carted off by SIU.

“You too, Spike.”

Spike looked up at Greg and Holleran. When had they gotten here? Then he felt dumb and closed his slack jaw. He’d killed at least three men today. Right.

He realized he was still crouched on the floor.

“Right,” he said out loud. Now if only his legs would cooperate…

“I don’t think so.” Steve, paramedic uniform askew, placed himself between Spike and Greg. “That was a high power round. Just because his vest took the shot, doesn’t mean there isn’t internal damage.”

“I’m fine.” Spike flapped a hand.

“Shush,” said Steve. But his eyes narrowed when he knelt in front of Spike. His hands palpitated the area. “How are you feeling?”

“Peachy.” Spike tried a smile. It must have looked wonky for Steve’s face to fall like that. “Especially once you help me up off this cold floor. Honestly, Steve, I can take deep breaths and everything.”

“There was CCTV across the street and it caught part of yours and Ed’s little shootout,” said Holleran. “That’ll have to do for your part in all this until you can come for an official statement.”

_Peachy._

Spike dutifully shed his vest, rifle, gloves, and outer sweater for the investigators to place in evidence. He shivered in just a T-shirt, not nearly warm enough for the end of September. Steve caught the motion and swung an orange blanket over him.

Greg and Holleran wandered away. They muttered something about probable cause.

“You ready?” Steve asked.

“As a Sunday picnic,” said Spike.

“Here we go. One, two, three!” Steve hoisted Spike to his feet. “That’s it. Nice and slow. You know the drill.”

Steve led him outside and though Spike would never in a million years admit it, he’d already have been on his face if not for Steve’s hand under his arm. The ground buckled under Spike’s feet, constantly shifting.

The man sat him down on the edge of a gurney. Spike drew the line. “I’m not going to the hospital. You know there’s no internal bleeding.”

“Probably not,” Steve conceded. “But I’m checking you out anyway, even if I have to do it here in front of God and country.”

“Deal.” Spike shifted so Steve could lift the front of his shirt. He again probed the skin. “What’s the damage, doc?”

Steve grinned. “First off, I’m not technically a doctor. Second, it didn’t even break the skin, though you’re going to have the mother of all goose eggs tomorrow.”

“I can live with that.”

“What happened to your wrist?”

Spike glanced down at his left hand. Sure enough, a bloody gash had opened up along the inside of his arm. It was clean, almost cauterized.

“Huh.” Spike shrugged, reminding himself of Dean. “Another bullet must have swiped me. I didn’t feel a thing.”

“The good news is, it’s not even deep enough to warrant stitches. Let me wrap it up. I don’t like how close that is to the artery, though.”

Heart rate jumping, Spike was glad SIU had also taken his earpiece. “Do you…have to report all injuries you find? To my superiors?”

Steve stilled. He turned from his med duffel to look closely at Spike. “Not unless it impedes your ability to do your job, no. Why?”

Spike let out a big breath. “Oh, good.”

_I look incompetent enough without this strike against me too._

“Spike?” Steve sat down next to him. “Everything okay? I heard about your father and I’m sorry.”

“Thanks.” Spike watched Steve wind a bandage around his arm. “It’s been…yeah.”

Steve nodded, eyes grim. “Yeah.”

“You too?”

“Lost my dad a long time ago. But I know how painful it is.”

Once the gauze was tied off, Spike immediately pulled the blanket down to cover it. Just in time too—Jules sauntered up with a wicked smirk.

“You saved Ed’s butt out there, John Wayne. We’re never going to let him live it down.”

Steve laughed at Spike’s blush.

Jules glanced at Steve. “He good to go? Not dying?”

“He’s cleared.” Steve raised a brow. “Spike?”

Spike reminded himself that this job, this life, was one step at a time. A couple steps. He could do that. Even if he had to do them by himself.

“Peachy.” 

* * *

“You want to tell me what that was about?”

Greg wasn’t surprised to see Ed approach him long after everyone else had gone home. He and Spike had been cleared by SIU hours ago.

Greg mulled over the debrief reports, feeling like he’d missed a jigsaw piece in a large puzzle. Ed liked to punch something, preferably a bag until it broke sand everywhere. Spike had updated all their software before he left.

They all had their de-stress routines.

He _was _surprised to see Ed so taut with fury.

Greg turned placid eyes on his friend. “Can you be more specific? Seven people died today.”

“I’m talking about you putting Spike in the line of fire.”

Greg had to lean back in his chair to look at Ed, towering over him, coat balled in one hand. “Are you questioning Spike’s ability as an officer in the field?”

“Of course not!” Ed’s nose wrinkled. He really _was_ mad. “He’s as qualified as the rest of us—case in point being that he saved my life today. But you did it without any warning, or talking about it with him first. Especially after last night!”

Ed paced to the door and back. “And Jules is good, but we both know she doesn’t have near the same technical expertise as Spike. With him in the truck we might have known about our gang leader showing up today. Tracked his phone. Something.”

“Their leader was supposed to be off the grid, somewhere in Quebec. Our intel was just bad, Ed.”

“Don’t try to sell me that!”

Greg pushed down the prickly feeling and held up a de-escalating hand. “In the meeting yesterday, some higher ups raised concerns about keeping Spike sharp on combat skills.”

Ed stared at him. “In our requalifying exam, he scored higher than Wordy!”

“Ed, come on. You know better.” Greg threw him a pitying look. “Training courses and real life shooters are not the same thing.”

For all Ed’s writhing energy, pent up frustration, it was when he finally stopped moving that Greg’s stomach dropped into his shoes. He went cold.

Ed leaned both palms on the table and his voice dropped low, soft. “Is that their excuse for what you did today or yours?”

* * *

Jules was used to feeling safe in her neighborhood. She lived in a cushy suburb, if a little pressed together, and knew every one of her neighbors within two houses in either direction, even the ones across the street.

She’d never been catcalled in this suburb, never hit on. No drug dealers even close to this area.

So she was more than a little startled to see a dark figure seated on her porch swing when she got out of her car.

The porch light had been busted for weeks. She kept meaning to fix it and now she wished dearly she had. The man—for it was too bulky to be a woman, too flat chested—wasn’t moving. In fact, he had both knees drawn up to his chest, chin propped on top.

Jules silently withdrew the small pistol she kept in her purse.

She mounted the steps, keeping her movements slow and telegraphed. All was still on the block.

“Sir?” She ventured. “Can I help you? I don’t mean to scare you, but I’m armed and this is my house.”

A beat.

“Scaring an intruder is exactly what you mean to do with that thing.”

Jules’ air left her in a rush. Jelly kneed, she switched the safety back on and dragged her feet the rest of the way.

“Spike! You can’t just sit at a woman’s front door in the dark!”

Spike looked up at her and the tongue lashing Jules longed to give him died in her throat. He was ashen, shaking faintly. A bandage covered his wrist. It was bloody, picked at.

She was at once glad Sam had decided to go to that hockey game after all. Spike didn’t need a witness for whatever…this…was.

“Spike? What’s going on?”

It was tempting with Spike, the easiest person to read on the team, to think he gave you everything in his head. That he had no secrets.

In reality, getting out how the tech was feeling often seemed like pulling teeth. His true struggles were carefully catalogued, hidden, and unnoticed.

This fact struck Jules afresh when she realized she hadn’t seen him like this since Lew’s death. He bottled everything.

She came closer, still keeping her movements broad and obvious. This proved wise when he eyed her palms, whites of his eyes flashing.

It made her long to strangle someone. This was the closest she’d ever had to a little brother, the one who kept her from getting jaded at this job.

And it wasn’t just because he was the youngest, their ‘baby’ of the team. His wonder, his desire to see the best in people, made them all feel human, reminded them what they worked so hard to preserve.

Finally, she made it within arm’s reach. Her hand found his head this time, playing with the silky strands. A fresh wave of tears coursed down his face.

“Jules, I…I need your help with something.”

Jules’ heart ached. “Name it.”

“You can say no,” Spike amended, almost fearfully. “You don’t have to.”

“Spike, look at me.”

He did after an anguished minute.

“I’d walk to Peru and back if it would help you, Spike.” She schooled her voice, words deliberate. “But first, I need to know if you’re hurt right now or in danger. Okay? Are you feeling any pain?”

Spike shook his head, agitated. “I’m fine.”

That didn’t exactly answer her question but Jules let it go.

“I need your help,” he said again. “You can’t tell anyone.”

That gave her some pause. “Not even the team?”

A hiccup ran through Spike’s breathing. He ducked his head. “Especially not the team.”

She knuckled his head back up. The expression on his face floored her, so full of agony and self loathing that she physically couldn’t breathe. It was a long three heart beats before she inhaled again.

“Spike…I’ll help you, but what is going _on_? Nobody’s been acting like themselves.”

Spike’s mournful eyes spilled over.

For some reason, though Jules felt more lost than ever, she wept with him.

“You can’t tell Greg,” he whispered. “Please promise me that.”

Jules’ lips quivered. “I promise.”


	7. Chapter 7

“_Is it ready?_”

“Yes. Marcus, today’s the day!” The man laughed. Suddenly, he couldn’t stop. “Today you come home, son!”

“_I can’t believe you built a bomb._”

The man smirked at a mess of canisters on his kitchen table. “But I didn’t, did I? Not really.”

“_See you soon, Dad._”

The man closed his eyes and took in a clean breath. “I’ll be waiting for you. You know where.”

On the table, a timer lit up.

* * *

(_Zero hour._)

It started like this.

“Wordy, you’ve driven around this block twice already. Stop window shopping.”

Wordy took one hand off the wheel to hold it aloft in the courtroom pose. “I, Kevin Wordsworth, do solemnly swear I am not birthday shopping for my wife on the job.”

Both of Spike’s brows shot up. “Who said anything about her birthday?”

“Crap…”

Spike chuckled. “If you want to pull over, just do it. We’re patrolling. Gotta enjoy it, right?”

“It’s not my fault sarg assigned us to the downtown core.”

“She’s a Thanksgiving baby.”

“Yep.” Wordy popped the ‘p.’ “And it helps me remember the date, if I’m honest.”

“Can’t argue with that,” said Spike. “Though if I was Shelley, I’d get sick of all the pumpkin.”

Wordy smiled. “Don’t get her started. She had a pumpkin pie birthday cake right up until she was ten.”

“Ouch.”

“_Guys? You near Toronto East Detention Centre by any chance?_”

Spike frowned. “No, Winnie. Why? What’s up?”

“_I just got a call from a concerned Warden Abrams about a phony ID that was used. They’re trying to track down the man who used it now. They’ve locked down the Centre._”

“Okaaay.” Wordy turned around to head for the prison. “What does this have to do with us? I mean, we’ll check it out, sure. But—”

“_The ID—including police number—belonged to one Mike Scarlatti._”

Spike sat bolt upright. “What? No way. I haven’t been there in five years.”

There was a pause.

“_Winnie?_” Ed asked for him.

“_They sent over the photo, Spike. It’s recent. Like, _really _recent._”

“How can you tell?” Spike’s heart hammered. What had he done wrong now?

“_Remember that call a week or so ago, nicked the bridge of your nose on a steel pipe?_”

“Yeah, so?”

“_That cut is in the photo._”

Wordy’s jaw dropped. Spike reeled. He’d messed up and surely this was one too many mistakes in so short a time frame. He’d be off the team after this. Or demoted. Maybe suspension…?

Spike forced himself to calm down, to shut the devastation away in a tiny box at the back of his mind.

“_We’re on our way_,” said Jules, and Spike heard the affirmative from Ed and Greg in his ear.

“I haven’t been there since I joined the team,” Spike said, some part of him determined to argue this problem away. “It was almost five years ago; I accompanied a prisoner from the courthouse to lockup.”

“_Would they still have your ID on file?_” asked Sam.

Spike went quiet. His ears rushed with an adrenaline surge. “Yes. They would. Complete with biometrics.”

“_Biometrics?_” Greg said in surprise at the same time Winnie assured him, “_Oh, no. The man just used a photo pass. CCTV didn’t catch him, though. Hold on_.”

Jules piped up immediately after, making Spike wonder if she’d been trying to interject for a while. “_It’s not your fault, Spike._”

Suddenly it all hit him. “Boss…he took my photo.”

“_What?_” Greg demanded. “_When?_”

“That fake bomb call. I heard a weird sound, like someone chattering, and I realize now what it was.”

Wordy slapped the wheel. “A camera shutter.”

Spike swallowed, closing his eyes, like that would block it out. “I can’t believe someone planted a phony bomb just to—”

“_Hot call, Team One!_” Winnie’s voice was higher than normal. Spike’s face fell before she finished speaking—“_Bomb sighted at Toronto East Detention Centre!_”

Wordy rolled into the lot and Spike was out the door before he could put it in park.

“We’re on scene!” Spike called with a hand to his ear. “I’m heading in to see the warden now.”

Sam and Jules roared into the lot just as Spike reached the door, followed shortly after by Ed and Greg.

There was a loud, offensive snap. Wordy and Spike whipped around to see Jules, adjusting the clip of a semi automatic.

Jules glared at Wordy, then Spike. “Not without backup, you’re not.”

That box clamoring in Spike’s mind almost cracked open. He stared at her and saw reflected at him that trust and support, the memory of that horrible night on her porch swing, when it all came out.

He nodded. She nodded back, feral expression dissipating.

“SRU?”

Warden Abrams was already sweating, his brown skin oily. Spike felt for him. He shook the man’s hand. “I’m the _real_ Mike Scarlatti, but call me Spike.”

“Spike, then.” The man held a bulky radio in one hand, giving Spike an up-and-down. “Officer on scene, Dale. He looks an awful lot like our imposter. We’re heading to the control room now.”

A security door buzzed open and the team filed through. Abrams led them through a bunker-style tunnel to the command center. Red censors flashed, emergency lights on.

“You shut off the power?” Sam asked, voicing everyone’s thoughts.

Abrams opened a steel door and they entered a wall-to-wall room of monitors. Spike gaped. “This place has had an upgrade since my last visit.”

Abrams nodded. “We’ve experienced several escape attempts in the last two years—three of them successful. We weren’t taking any more chances. And we shut off power except for essential systems when there’s a bomb threat.”

Spike nodded. “So electricity doesn’t exacerbate the reaction should it blow. Where’s the package?”

Greg and Abrams made instant eye contact, sharing an expression that did absolutely nothing for Spike’s already frayed nerves.

Ed must have been more literate in Greg Eyebrows because he scowled. “This is not a case of information leak. Someone essentially stole Spike’s identity for this. He’s not the culprit.”

Spike took a step back in shock. “Boss, I didn’t do this on purpose! He took my photo on that bomb call.”

Greg conceded this with a tilt of his head. “Warden, if you want that bomb defused…you have to trust him.”

Jules stepped up to Spike’s side, just a hair in front of his shoulder. Ed had both hands on his hips. Wordy and Sam, though they clearly had no idea what was going on, felt the tension. Greg looked from Spike to Ed.

“Where’s our bomb, Warden?” Greg asked, without taking his eyes off them.

Abrams finally deflated. “You can understand what a stressful decision this was for us, but we had to evacuate. The bomb is right up against a common area wall.”

Spike wondered if there’d be no end to the lurches in this day. “You followed protocol even when someone is obviously trying to make a break for it?”

Abrams sighed. “I’d rather let one criminal go than condemn hundreds of lives to death. We’re evacuating now. It’s an orderly procedure we train hours for, strict supervision. It’ll go smoothly.”

Spike felt the first stirrings of anger, which was unusual for him. He pushed it down. “Tell me where it is.”

Abrams pointed to a monitor in the corner. “Southwest wall. Just before a stairwell door.”

Jules spoke up just before Spike could. “Someone planted that bomb from _outside_. Not an inmate. This might be an assisted job.”

“It’s a hefty bomb,” said Spike with a squint at the camera footage, already grabbing a pair of clippers from his bag. “And it’s dirty. Inmates couldn’t conceal something like this without detection.”

“Alright.” Greg straightened. “Wordy, Sam, and Ed—go assist with the evacuation efforts. Jules is with me in command centre.”

Spike turned, looking at Greg. A small, childish part of himself wanted to say, ‘I don’t know what I did to make you hate me, and I’m sorry. Do you trust me to do this?’

But he simply asked, “Boss?”

Greg nodded, distracted. “Go. Keep us updated.”

Spike ran out the door, down the stairs. He turned at the landing to branch off down westward. The last thing he needed was to open the door, bump the bomb, and send them all to an early grave.

Rounding the corner, he spotted the wires first. These were more sophisticated than the first; black, rimmed with copper for conduction. A digital timer was counting down.

“Boss, I’m assessing the bomb. It’s odd, but the timer is counting down from thirty-two minutes. A long time for a bomb this size.”

“_Any idea what we’re dealing with?_”

Spike used the metal detector. No beeps. No trip wires. He approached and crouched down, using his flashlight in the hooded space to see around it. The overcast day, coupled with the wind, made him shiver.

What he saw didn’t make a whole lot of sense. He’d never encountered this before, crude as it was.

“You want the good news, boss, or the bad news first?”

Greg hummed. “_Good news._”

“The good news is that this one’s sort of fake too.”

“_Sort of?_” Jules asked.

“There’s no explosive material, no detonator. It’s just…” Spike trailed off, wondering how to explain it.

Greg, perceptive as ever, asked the right question—“_What’s the bad news?_”

“The chemical canisters are real. Filled with caesium chloride.”

“_How can you be sure that’s what it is?_”

“I can’t,” Spike confessed, “but that’s the chemical symbol etched into the side of both cans.”

An audible hesitation ensued over the line, despite the silence. Spike eyed the two canisters on either side. They were small, barely large enough to hold a few ounces each.

“And, boss…there’s a clear container of water underneath each canister.”

Greg swore.

“_What?_” Ed asked. “_What’s so bad about water?_”

“Caesium chloride actually isn’t fatal in powder form if I just touch it,” Spike explained. “But once it makes contact with water, well. Let’s just say I’m toast. Even if the mixture doesn’t kill me, the explosion of glass probably will. When the timer runs out, a pin on either end will tug away and drop the chloride, like a grenade pin.”

“_Radius?_” Boss asked.

“Just me in danger. The blast would only cover about twenty feet in either direction. With the building and grounds evacuated, there’s no risk. We could just let it detonate if we have to. I think someone placed this bomb here specifically to evacuate the prison.”

“_That’s great, Spike._” Jules’ voice was pained. “_If you can’t figure out a way to defuse it safely, get out of there._”

Spike paused. He realized it had been quiet in his ear compared to a normal bomb call. _They’re discussing something on a different channel. _“Jules? What aren’t you guys telling me?”

“_Spike…_” Greg’s voice was hoarse and it threw Spike’s heart into his throat. “_Biometrics were accessed ten minutes ago somewhere in the west wing of the building. A fingerprint scanner._”

He didn’t elaborate and Spike sat back on his heels, knees cold. “Jules?”

“_The index and thumb were a dead match for yours_,” she said, tone apologetic.

The world spun. Spike’s voice came out thin. “That’s not possible.”

“_They want to arrest you, Spike, but we’re fighting it._”

It clicked. All at once in a slew of mental images.

“The bar.”

Greg made a confused sound. “_Bar?_”

“Boss, at the bar. My fingers were sticky. Someone roofied my drink but didn’t touch me? I knew there had to be an explanation.”

There was sharp intake of breath from the others but no one spoke up.

Spike’s eyes darted, trying to piece it together. “They followed me into the bathroom, boss. That’s what was on my fingers at the hospital—plaster or ballistics gel. Someone needed my access to this building, old as it was.”

“_Spike…_”

“Don’t you see? Someone’s had this break planned for a long time.”

“_Spike, we don’t know—_”

Spike tuned the voices out. No more running, no more hiding. Finally, _finally _he knew how this was his fault and what he could do to fix it.

Removing the water from underneath, he quickly cut the line between the timer and pin. He caught the first canister in his hand before it could slip. Same with the second.

_ Whew. _He placed them in a biohazard bag and sealed it.

“Come on! They’re meeting on the other side—we’re clear!”

“Home free, boys!”

Spike’s head shot up. Huddled in the shadow of the stairwell as he was, three men—barely older than him—in custodial uniforms didn’t see Spike at all. They climbed the chain link fence and ran for the nearby woods.

The lead man really _did_ look like Spike, light, walnut eyes and short cropped brunette hair. No wonder his badge had gotten through the scanner.

“Bomb defused,” Spike whispered into his headset. “But I have three inmates escaping by the western tree line.”

“_Good work,_” said Ed. “_Backup’s on its way._”

Spike’s mouth twisted into a hard, cross shape. Anger at himself. _He’d_ gotten them all into this mess, for allowing himself to be duped at the bar, and then again in the field.

No wonder Greg had been so cold with him lately. _You deserve it._

Pa always said you had to make amends before you could move forward, could be trusted. Maybe this was a chance to do just that, dropped in his lap.

A decision was reached before he’d taken his next breath.

Spike shot to his feet. “SRU! Stop and put your hands on your head!”

The three men jumped in fear, sheet white, and ran faster. Spike did a running leap and scaled the fence in four seconds flat.

He took off at a dead sprint, not even hearing frantic voices in his ear. The dry grass had been mowed recently and it crunched under Spike’s boots. They posed no threat, no weapon, so Spike kept his sidearm holstered in favour of using both arms to pump.

_ Where do they think they’re going to go? _

To Spike’s surprise, they didn’t head for the trees, like he expected.

He squinted.

_ Oh no_. They were making a beeline for the car lot, the private one off to the side for the warden and sensitive visitors. It was shaded, concealed.

The lead inmate had a set of keys in his hand.

Spike arched away, hoping he could cut them off at the parking lot entrance. “Stop! You have nowhere to run!”

They only ran faster, of course. Spike put on a burst of speed, going his fastest clip now. He rolled into a baseball slide and tore the legs out from under one of the inmates.

The youth landed heavier than a sack of lead. Out cold where his forehead slammed the ground.

Spike rode this forward momentum to hook his elbow around another’s neck and swing him down. He cuffed both, ankles and all, and huffed in frustration at letting one get away.

The leader, his doppelganger.

Only…

_ Where did he go? _ The field was empty. _I didn’t hear him start a car._

“Stay down,” Spike ordered the conscious prisoner. “Guys, I have two in custody.”

“_Spike!_” Ed snarled. “_Don’t you ever disobey a direct order again!_”

“Sorry.”

“_No you’re not!_”

“No.” Spike tilted his head. “I’m not.”

“_You wait for backup,_” Ed snapped. “_Stay where you are. No lone wolfing it with our last prisoner._”

Spike let out a ragged breath. “Deal. I’m by the smaller parking lot. West side.”

“_Copy_,” said both Ed and Sam.

Spike jogged onto the pavement, winded but not sweating yet. Hairs on the back of his neck prickled. Silently, he pulled out his Glock.

An engine screamed to life, sending a jolt up Spike’s back.

The green SUV revved straight at Spike. He paled and jumped out of its path. When it passed, he aimed.

_ CRACK! CRACK! _

Two bullets easily shot out the back tires in a spray of burning rubber. It squealed to a halt. Smoke filled the space between the car and his position. Spike’s heartbeats bled into each other.

“Step out of the vehicle with your hands raised!”

Spike didn’t realize the man already _had_ exited the vehicle until a voice sounded behind him.

“We meet again, Scarlatti. Unfortunately, I need your help one last time.”

Spike spun on his heel and raised his gun. Except…except the man had one too—

_ CRACK! _

The lights went out.


	8. Chapter 8

Did running count as cardio if it was fuelled by berserker adrenaline?

Greg couldn’t be sure of the answer to this, but he ran across the field anyway.

Apparently today was everyone’s ‘break protocol’ card to play. Even Wordy had abandoned the evacuation effort when he heard the gun go off and then that terrible silence. Greg abandoned the command centre, Jules hot on his heels.

Ed had arrived on scene before them all, kneeling next to something while Sam stood as look out, rifle lowered.

Greg’s heart fell to see the smoking SUV but no Spike.

“Ed?” Greg wouldn’t have recognized his own voice had it not burned his esophagus on the way up. “Is that blood?”

Sam’s hands were steady around the gun, but his lips weren’t when he nodded at the green SUV. Wordy, Jules, and Greg turned to look.

The strangled noise from Jules still didn’t hurt as much as Wordy’s soft exclamation—“It’s a bullet! Someone shot him.”

A smaller round, it had dented the top of the driver’s side door frame. Covered in blood.

Spike’s blood.

“It might not be his,” Greg tried. His tongue felt too big for his mouth, dry. “Spike might have shot our last escapee.”

Ed, silent up to this point, closed his eyes. He held up Spike’s headset, also covered in blood. “Greg…this trail leads to an empty parking space.”

And there, in the empty parking space, sat all of Spike’s gear—vest, cellphone, knee pads, tac belt, gloves, and all. Even his keys and the little robot keychain.

Greg fought to keep upright, to fight the wobble in his knees. They’d taken him, his officer. His.

Sam paced to the SUV and back. “Someone nabbed him. Why?”

“Leverage, probably,” said Greg in a small voice.

Jules was already on the phone, rooting through her pockets for a scrap of paper. “Warden? Uniforms just picked up our two escaped prisoners that Spike caught. Does that narrow down the identity of our impostor?” She listened, scrawling down an address. “Cain Harper. Thank you.”

Ed stood. “His name is Cain? That’s who has Spike?”

Jules shook her head. “That’s his next of kin, a father in Adelaide. The boy’s name is Marcus Harper. Convicted at seventeen, five years ago, for being involved with a drug ring.”

Shock showed on all their faces.

“And he was sent _here_?” Greg asked. “Some of these are for-life inmates.”

“Eight year sentence,” Jules confirmed. “Seems harsh, and that’s what the father thought too. He fought it right up until the end. But get this: the officer who transported him from the courthouse to here?”

Sam deflated. “Spike.”

They all fell silent, somehow having drawn into a circle without noticing it.

Ed’s chest started to buck. Heaving with frustration. “Why didn’t he just wait for backup?”

Jules’ eyes shot to Greg. They narrowed in a scathing glare. “Maybe he thought he had something to prove.”

Greg struggled to breathe. A lead cape draped about his shoulders and his torso, an unbearable weight. Everything started to sink in, popping his bubble of self-blown barriers and wilful ignorance.

“At the very least,” said Wordy, ever the voice of reason. “The other two would have gotten away without his intervention. They’d be long gone by now.”

Sam managed an impressed chuckle. “Don’t know how Spike took down both at the same time. Would have loved to see that.”

It struck Greg at once that they were lost and waiting for him to do something. Struck dumb by this bloody kidnapping of their own. “Listen up. Jules, you and I will go talk to the father, see if we can pin down a location or a plan here. Ed, press on Marcus’ friends, get them to talk.”

Ed straightened to his full height. “Copy.”

“Sam, find out which car is missing and put an APB out. Marcus doesn’t have a cell we can track, but I want to know if the car he stole has an onboard emergency system the minute you do.”

“Copy that.” Sam ran off, relieved to have a task.

“And me, boss?” Wordy smiled, sad, at him. It made Greg uncomfortable, how much his friend seemed to read in him. “Moral support?”

Greg shook his head. “I don’t think anything will feel right until Spike’s back in arm’s reach, but thank you.”

“Ditto,” Jules muttered, hands on her hips. “How about a roadblock?”

“We don’t know which way Harper went.” Greg stared at the pavement. It wasn’t a fatal puddle of blood, but it was enough to be worrisome. Any blood of Spike’s was too much. “But get uniforms in the area to check for any strange passengers or busted tail lights.”

Wordy raised a brow. “You think Spike will try something? After his captor _shot_ him?”

Greg set his jaw. “If he’s conscious—I know he will.”

* * *

It could have been worse.

That had been one of Pa’s favourite sayings. The line at immigration was too long? It could have been a rejection stamp; at least they were in a country where people were allowed to make real money.

Jellyfish stung him? At least it wasn’t a shark bite.

No peanut butter for lunch sandwiches, only jam? Better than nothing to eat at all.

Spike went back to that line at Canadian immigration in his head a lot over the next hour. The memory of all those people. The smells, the passport’s leather sweaty where it met his palm. Listening to all these languages, none of them Italian.

His papa, getting teary eyed for reasons a five-year-old Michelangelo couldn’t understand.

He did now, though. He understood what hunger did to a person. The traumatic reactions that came with seeing a lot of food or resources in one place after so long.

It could have been worse. He could have been in the trunk.

Spike faded in and out. Every time he opened his eyes, they were somewhere new. Judging by the thinning trees and frequent number of squat buildings, Spike guessed they were actually heading back into town.

While the side of his head was on fire, the rest of him shivered, which seemed odd since the man had gone through the trouble of giving Spike a toque for his head. The thick, woollen fabric had also stopped some of the bleeding.

Or at least, Spike guessed it had since blood wasn’t seeping through his collar and down his shirt anymore.

The car went over a bump and Spike groaned when his head left the backseat and landed. The prisoner had ordered him to lay down while he bound Spike’s hands behind his back.

Fine by Spike. He wasn’t sure he could sit up without vomiting anyway.

The man glanced back in the rear view mirror. “You really don’t remember me, do you?”

Spike squinted, trying to focus his vision, blind in his right eye thanks to a curtain of red. “You look like me.”

The young man laughed. “First thing I noticed about you all those years ago.”

Spike went quiet. His mind worked, feverish. “Did I bust you? Is this a revenge thing?”

“Not at all. This kidnapping is a matter of convenience, I’m afraid. You were the officer who drove me to Toronto East. Had to give your biometrics and ID number for swiping, remember?”

Spike blinked. “Harper. You’re that Harper kid.”

“Attaboy, Mike. Call me Marcus.”

Spike’s nose wrinkled. “Nobody calls me Mike.”

“I know. Spike, isn’t it?”

Marcus didn’t turn away fast enough to hide a dimpled smirk. Easy going. A little excited.

Nothing cut through the haze in Spike’s brain like someone messing with him. Fresh adrenaline surged through his system.

_He knows who I am. A lot about who I am._

Spike tried to sit up and panicked to find he physically couldn’t.

_That would be the blood loss. Calm down._

“We’ve got to pull over for a quick second, Spike. Make sure nobody’s found my little spot yet before we switch cars. Sit tight.”

And with that Marcus put the car in park and hopped out. He didn’t move away from the car, but he held a pair of binoculars to his eyes.

“Now would be your chance,” Spike whispered to himself. But he could barely move.

He watched Marcus pull a burner phone out of the custodial uniform pocket, an ancient thing almost without a screen.

Screens. Calls.

_Think, thinkthinkthinkthinkthink—_

A sedan. They were in a new, silver sedan that had been stolen from the employees lot.  
  
Spike realized what he was staring at.

OnStar. This car had OnStar.

And Marcus was standing right by the hood. Even if Spike could climb into the front seat backwards and hit the emergency call button with his hands, he knew there was no way to achieve that without being seen.

They were in a deserted, shipyard section of town. No witnesses he could alert for help.

Backwards.

The dots connected.

Spike mentally flipped through blueprints for this model of car. GPS was located at the _back_, not the front.

Right behind his hands.

The only thing between him and it was the seats. Spike reached in between the seats and the cool air of the trunk wafted on his fingers.

He felt the brush of wires but could not reach. His stomach cinched in fear. This was it. He was running out of options.

Then his hand closed around something plastic and short. With much pain and yanking, Spike pulled the thing out from between the seat.

He glanced over his shoulder to see his prize—

An ice scraper. A chipped, red thing.

Spike had an idea. He rolled over onto his right side, wincing, trying to see through the spinning haze. Hoisting himself up just a little, he knew this was a long shot.

A _super_ long shot.

The OnStar button, on the dash by the heater, might as well have been Mars for how far away it loomed.

Spike closed his eyes, prayed, and aimed for it anyway.

He missed. Spectacularly. It clattered off the wheel and onto the floor.

Tears of helplessness burned behind Spike’s eyes. He thought of his father, weeping, eating his first chocolate cake.

_No. Try again._

In the back of the front seat pockets, there was an umbrella and a rolled up health magazine. He chucked the umbrella first, nauseous from all the moving.

It missed too.

Marcus had his back to the car, but he seemed to be wrapping up an animated phone call.

Spike hefted the magazine. It was a thick thing, elastic holding it together. Whatever prison official owned this car hadn’t had time to read it yet, he could tell.

With all his might, he twisted like a discuss thrower and his bound hands outstretched to move it as far as he could.

It was too much. He’d overcompensated his body weight and lurched. Spike cried out as he hit the floor, his head narrowly missing a clash with the door. All that for nothing.

_Pa was right. You are a fool._

One tear spilled over before he could stop it, salty and stinging against his chapped lips.

“_Emergency services. Hello? Can you tell me where you are?_”

Spike wondered if he’d passed out. Surely this couldn’t be real.

“I…I can’t talk.” He coughed, hating the metallic taste of blood and the thickness of his own dehydrated spit. “Boss, I mean—Greg. Get me Sergeant Greg Parker!”

“_It’s not safe for you to talk?_” the woman asked.

“Yes!”

“_Where are you right now?_”

“Shipyard!” Spike coughed. “I’m looking at old boats and containers!”

“_That’s great. You’re doing great. Are you injured?_”

Spike’s face fell. He hitched a painful breath. “I…yes.”

“_Do you see—_”

“I can’t talk anymore! Please, I’m sorry, don’t make any more noise.”

She complied, to the cool relief of Spike, so overwhelming that he slumped.

Marcus turned and headed for the car. They locked eyes through the window.

When Marcus tore open the door, Spike blanched.

“We’re going for a little ride, Spikey.”

“Please. Just leave me here.” Spike’s panic surged up, a little but enough that his breath caught. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because I have to.”

He reached for Spike’s head.


	9. Chapter 9

Before Greg could hop into the truck, Sam sprinted over, more wild eyed than Greg had ever seen him. He held a cell to his ear, hand over the mic. His cheeks were flushed.

“I’ve got him! Boss, I have him on the line!”

Greg’s breath caught.

Immediately, Jules was all over him. She shoved her ear next to his. “Spike!”

In a move that proved the _second_ most astonishing thing in this day, Sam clapped his hand over Jules’ mouth. It was a harsh, impulsive gesture. Wordy ducked forward on instinct to protect his teammate.

Pure fire burned in Jules’ eyes. Greg wondered if she might shoot him.

Until Sam said in a hushed voice oozing stress, “No! Spike told the dispatcher it wasn’t safe to speak or make noise! Marcus doesn’t know the OnStar is connected.”

Jules pulled away, looking green. “If your hand hadn’t been over the receiver…”

“Is he okay?” _Dumb question. _Greg tried again. “Do you hear him?”

Sam nodded, a flicker of eagerness in his gaze. “He was asking for you, boss. He sounds tired but alert.”

Greg did a spin to rake a hand down his face. “Thank God.”

“Can we track the car?” Wordy asked.

Sam twisted the phone away from his ear so he could still hear but also talk freely. “Winnie is already on it. Spike said somewhere near the shipyard distri—”

Colour evaporated from Sam’s face. All at once. There was absolutely no warning or buildup.

Greg’s heart seized and Jules cried out. He didn’t notice his death grip on Wordy’s arm until the man patted his hand.

“I’m freaking out too, boss.”

Two plump tears trickled down Sam’s cheeks. His expression was open, appalled, in a way Greg wasn’t familiar with. Like looking at the sun, none of them could keep their eyes on Sam for too long.

Jules’ tone was soft, a balm on the scalding heat of this moment. “Sam?”

“He screamed,” Sam whispered. “I heard Marcus talking and then…Spike _screamed_.”

Wordy swore.

“And now?” Greg breathed, in a battle for focus. “What’s he doing now?”

Sam sat heavily on the hood of the SUV. “Nothing. They’re gone, boss. I think they’re switching cars. I heard another engine start.”

Greg stood unmoving while Jules comforted Sam. While Wordy ran to Ed’s truck to head to the shipyard.

All Greg could see was Spike’s wounded face that night in the hospital, the yawning of a chasm between them that had never healed. The lilt between Spike’s brows that spoke of crackling pain.

Greg struggled to take full breaths, to loosen that knot in his rib cage, twisted and tangled and writhing in place of a steady heartbeat. He again wondered how he could feel so alive and so dead at the same time.

And for the first time he realized there might be an advantage in it.

Anger was not an emotion that came to him easily, thanks to years of tempering emotions and being in control over them.

Now…now he let it fester. Lick its teeth with the flesh of his insides.

Greg hiccuped around that woollen feeling and waved at Jules. “Let’s pay Cain Harper a visit.”

* * *

It was a modest house, a one storey in a lower-middle class neighbourhood. The lawn was well kept. Shutters freshly painted.

Jules knocked on the door with a side look at Greg’s flared nostrils.

A man opened the door and the divot between his eyes smoothed in an expression of understanding. “Hello, officers.”

“Mr. Harper, I’m Officer Callaghan and this is Sergeant Parker. Can we come in?”

Much more diplomatic than the strange impulse to punch him that Greg was feeling. Unusual for him.

“Don’t see’s I have a choice.” Cain smiled, without humour. It exposed a healing split in his lip. “This is about my son.”

It wasn’t a question. He sat at the kitchen table while Jules and Greg loomed over him.

They were silent for a long minute, long enough for Jules to get a read on the place and Greg to throw his own habits out the window in favour of glaring at this man who took Spike away from them, even by proxy.

“A butter knife,” said Greg.

Cain started and stared at Greg. “What?”

“Spike—the officer whose drink you drugged in the bar that night—you made him so scared that he had a knife out and ready to attack anyone who came into his hospital room.”

Jules also stared at him.

Cain, to his credit, looked remorseful. He touched his lip. “Your officer is a good shot.”

“Trained him myself in hand-to-hand,” said Jules with no small measure of pride.

“Do you have a son, Sergeant Parker?”

Greg nodded. “I do.”

Their eyes met. A bolt of vulcanized steel raked down Greg’s spine.

“And can you imagine how it would feel to lose him overnight, without warning?”

“I don’t have to,” said Greg, softly. “I already did.”

Cain looked taken aback by this. He straightened his arms, both palms on the table, and leaned forward. “Then you know why I did it. I remembered Scarlatti from when he took my son into custody after the…after the trial. My son doesn’t belong in that place.”

“Is that a confession?”

Cain laughed again, the pitying laugh of those who see the reality ahead. “I don’t care what happens to me, so long as my son is free. I love him more than anything.”

Greg stopped breathing for a beat.

Jules sighed through her nose. “Your son got sentenced pretty heavily. Eight years. You tried to appeal.”

Cain nodded, neck stiff. “But it didn’t work. Lawyers are expensive and I’m just a delivery post driver.”

Jules made a note. “The case was shaky at best.”

“He’d gone over to a friend’s house after school,” said Cain. “That’s the thing people don’t understand about drug dealers—they don’t all live in seedy houses like the movies. This was an upscale suburb, nice. Then suddenly the police show up to bust the boy’s father. They assumed Marcus was in his ring!”

A manic note in Cain’s voice filtered through Greg’s haze. He felt a sudden, very unwanted, pang of commiseration.

“The courts have gotten stricter, less forgiving,” Cain went on. “No juvie option for my son, no community service. But he’s innocent!”

“He certainly isn’t now,” Jules snapped. “We can all admit the police didn’t handle that bust well, with minors on scene, but shooting and kidnapping a police officer won’t look good even if Marcus is innocent.”

Cain choked on a gasp. “Kidnapping? Shooting—what…that can’t be right. What are you talking about?”

“What was your plan?” Greg finally spoke up.

“Plan?”

“How was this supposed to go?” Greg’s volume climbed. “I assume today didn’t go the way Marcus intended and that’s why he took my officer with him.”

Cain slapped the table. “It was simple, really. During a routine system reboot, Marcus would slip away from the general population and use Scarlatti’s ID number, plus the cleaning cart left out for him, to get through the doors to the west exit, where employees’ personal belongings are stored.”

“Like car keys,” Jules murmured.

“Exactly.” Cain nodded. “All he had to do was swipe a set of keys or two and drive away. Simple as that. No assaults or fuss. He’d call me using the burner phone once he got on the road.”

“And the bomb?” Jules asked.

“If he didn’t call me by a certain time, I was supposed to activate a ‘bomb’ I’d planted last night near the stairwell and start the timer. It started flashing, alerting CCTV. One small enough not to cause any damage, but enough chemicals to keep the tech busy. I had no idea it would actually _be_ Scarlatti.

“They’d evacuate the building, and Marcus would use the ballistics gel thumb and index finger mould to get out unseen during the chaos. I assumed he’d gotten caught with the ID and I was right. Everything went according to plan. I haven’t a clue why he’d take Scarlatti.”

“He called?” Greg demanded.

“Not yet.” Cain became agitated, shifting in his seat, rubbing sweaty palms on his jeans. “He’s supposed to once he switches cars.”

Jules got up in his face, bent low. “Where is he going, Harper?”

“I don’t know!”

“Not good enough,” said Jules. “My friend is currently bleeding and in pain and your _son_ is responsible. If Marcus threatens him again, we may have to shoot him. Is that what you want?”

Red appeared above Cain’s collar. “I don’t know! I swear! He didn’t tell me his secondary location for this very scenario. So I genuinely couldn’t give him up!”

Greg’s fury rose to a fever pitch. Jules opened her mouth to ream Cain again.

A phone on the table buzzed.

Cain deflated in relief. “Oh! Oh, my boy.” Then he held out his wrists, eyes welled with tears. “Arrest me, shoot me. I don’t care. It’s over.”

Jules put a hand to her ear while doing just that. She tightened the zip cuffs. “Winnie? Can you track the incoming call on Cain’s phone?”

“_On it_,” she confirmed.

“_Boss_,” said Ed. “_No luck at the shipyard—no cameras around. But we put some pressure on Cain’s friends and apparently he’d mentioned a friend’s house._”

The phone stopped buzzing. Disconnected call and Greg worried they hadn’t had time to trace it.

“_I’ve got it, sergeant._”

“Go ahead, Winnie.” Greg’s blood pressure spiked. “Where is he?”

“_Cushy neighbourhood in the bay area. Near the waterfront_.”

Something occurred to Greg. “Where was the bust?”

Jules paused. “Surely he wouldn’t go back to the scene of his arrest all those years ago?”

“_He’s not headed in that direction_,” said Winnie. “_But his friend Layton, the one whose father was busted?_”

Jules frowned. “Yeah?”

“_His uncle is the owner of an auto garage near there, about fifteen blocks from your location. Looks like the old garage complex hasn’t been used since the new one was built._”

“That’s it!” said Jules.

Greg rushed to the door. “Thank you, Winnie.”

“Sergeant!”

Greg turned back and was met by the sight of Cain’s jagged face, crisscrossed by the jigsaw puzzle of love’s sacrifice. It was there on his face for anyone to read.

No shame. Open and willing to die if it kept the subject of that love safe and alive.

Cain had a woollen ball in his chest too.

It was the first time Greg had seen someone else with it, with that raw thorn that ached and tugged. That demanded your all.

Greg was turned to stone in its powerful presence.

Cain’s eyes misted. “Think of your son, when faced with mine. Don’t hurt him if you can help it, please.”

“Boss!” Jules circled an arm from the driver’s side of the SUV. Uniforms had pulled up to take Cain into custody. “Ed, Wordy, and Sam are meeting us there. Come on! We’ve gotta move!”

Greg glanced again at Cain. “I can’t promise that. Not if he threatens Spike.”

Cain smiled—and this time it was realer than the air in Greg’s lungs. “Then I know you’ll keep your promise.”

To the two officers walking into the house, the words were surely confusing.

Greg wished he could say the same.

* * *

At the end of a cozy neighbourhood street, next to a clothing shop, closed for the weekend, two black SUVs shut off their engines. Concealed at the corner by two large bushes, only a break in the foliage provided view for Ed’s binoculars to see through.

Jules parked behind them and Greg ducked up to Ed’s window, where he had an elbow propped on the door.

“How are we looking?” he asked.

Ed pulled the binoculars down. “There’s definitely movement inside. Only one storey. No upper floors. If Marcus and Spike are here, they arrived long before we did. Kid is smart. No lights on. No bodies close to windows.”

Sam hopped out of the middle truck and ran over, also bent over. “How many exits?”

“Can’t be sure,” said Wordy. “But it looks like just the front double doors and a smaller one in back, leading to an overgrown parking lot. The place isn’t in the best shape.”

Everyone huffed a quiet groan. Decrepit buildings meant hiding spots, every time.

Ed’s nose twitched.

Greg tensed. “Eddie?”

“There’s blood on the front stoop. Someone dragged him inside, probably without resistance.”

This proved to be Greg’s breaking point.

Spike was inside, injured, because he felt the need to make amends for a perceived wrong. A wrong that Greg had fostered and let him believe was real because the truth was much harder to swallow.

So much harder.

_ I’m sorry, Spike. _ It was unacceptable. A pain so great Greg’s heart physically ached from the pressure.

He didn’t outwardly react, not in any visible way. Only Ed narrowed eyes at him. “What are you thinking, boss?”

“I have an idea. I’m going in to negotiate, hands raised. I want Marcus to think he’s in control, that it’s just me.”

Wordy scoffed. “Are you kidding me? You want us to let you go in there without backup?”

“Yes.” Greg shared a moment of eye contact with each member of this team. This family. “You guys sort out a stealth entrance. Let me worry about keeping Marcus distracted.”

And with that, he straightened his vest. Ed grabbed his arm before he could march away.

“Greg…” Ed’s eyes were open now too, not to the extent Sam’s had been, but with that same blinding quality. “We have your back.”

“I know that.” Greg mustered a grin. “Not a snow ball’s chance in hell I’d do this unless I trusted you with my life.”

Wordy nodded. “Go get Spike.”

Greg saluted and then took his time walking to the door. It was quiet on the street. No car traffic. No wind.

He remembered reading about Apollo 11’s Michael Collins, how the astronaut had been cut off from his team while circling the moon. No radio contact, no help if he needed it.

The ‘loneliest man in the universe’ they’d called him. Yet in every interview, Collins insisted that he hadn’t felt isolated, that he’d felt a part of something bigger. His team.

Greg squared his shoulders. He wasn’t the loneliest man on this mission:

_ I’m coming, Spike._


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Kronk voice* Oh yeah. It's all comin' together.

It ended like this.

Greg only got the chance to knock once before the left door was torn open and a meaty arm yanked him inside. He made sure to keep his hands up.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim, gritty interior of the garage. When they did, Greg’s heart missed a beat.

_Half a dozen_ men stood in a rough circle around him, Marcus at the head holding a Glock. The others hefted baseball bats or hunting knives. Some sniffed in the taut silence.

Greg worked hard not to gape at this twist in events. He recognized another man in the corner from his photo—Layton.

Marcus raised the gun. “You have one minute to explain why I shouldn’t put a bullet through your skull.”

Greg took an assessing look around him. Besides a bathroom with a broken door, there was only one other room in the garage, a back office. Its shiny new padlock got Greg’s attention, against all the dust.

_Spike._

Calm rushed through him. Marcus wasn’t a career criminal, let alone a killer. Others would have shot first. If Greg stayed nonthreatening, they might be able to get Spike out of this alive.

Greg’s family rarely went to church when he was a boy.

But standing here now, staring down the barrel of a gun, determined fire in Marcus’ light brown eyes, Greg felt like he was kneeling, confessing a sin.

“I’m here because of your father,” said Greg, tone low. “Because when I looked in his eyes, I saw a man who loved his son, or at least showed that love, far better than I do.”

A palpable ripple of wonder shook the men. They’d been waiting for the cavalry, the drawing of a gun, the explosion that ended their freedom. This wasn’t in the playbook.

“Do the right thing here, Marcus, and you both can be reunited.”

“I assume we’re surrounded,” said Marcus.

Greg shook his head. “Just you and me, buddy. You took Spike as a bartering chip, I’m guessing. For this very scenario.”

Marcus hesitated, sizing Greg up, then nodded. “I didn’t mean to shoot him.”

“I believe you,” said Greg, and he meant it. This was just a desperate kid trying to prove his innocence in all the wrong ways.

“I found the gun in the SUV’s glove compartment. I just wanted to scare Scarlatti with it, but…”

“It went off,” Greg finished for him.

Marcus’s lips coiled, pained. “There was a lot of blood.”

“It’s okay now.” Greg kept his tone soothing. Despite how these words made him frantic. “If you just let him go, let us walk away, none of your friends here will be charged.”

Marcus met his eyes head on. “And me?”

“I don’t make promises I can’t keep,” said Greg.

Marcus cocked the gun. “Wrong answer!”

“_I have a shot through the window_,” said Sam in his ear.

“Negative,” Greg whispered. “Hold fire. We have at least six men in here too.”

“Just shoot him, Marc,” Layton hissed. “They’re not letting us out of here even if we give them the cop!”

Greg had known, from the moment he left the safety of Ed’s truck, how this was going to go. The only way to end this.

It was time to stop running. Stop denying. Stop pushing him away.

The agony inside Greg bubbled up. His lips began to quiver, the guilt and remorse strangling his windpipe from the inside out.

“You have my son in there.”

The words rang out, crystal clear in the musty space. Everyone quieted.

Without taking his eyes off Marcus’ Glock, Greg unzipped his Kevlar vest. It landed on the floor with a fatidic thud.

“_Boss?_”

“_Greg?_” 

Voices clashed in his ear. Greg ignored them. In fact, he removed his head set, held it up for the men to see, and tossed it by a pile of tarps. Marcus squinted at him.

Greg said it again, surer this time. He removed his sidearm and placed that on the floor too. “You have my son in that room. He’s got auburn hair and big, chocolate brown eyes so full of wonder and trust that they…”

He swallowed and it tasted like release. Salt too, from the mist slowly filming over his eyes in a cathartic haze. The corners of his lips flipped up.

He huffed a helpless laugh, finally identifying that woollen ball in his chest cavity as it welled up now, soaked in such fondness and purpose that it threatened to choke him.

_I know what it is!_ Greg wanted to sing his ignorance and stupidity from the rooftops.

“That’s my son in there and I’ve loved him longer than I ever realized.” Greg huffed again and maybe it was a laugh or maybe it was a sob but either way he’d never felt this broken open, throbbing, since Dean and his wife left.

“I didn’t know how much he’d mean to me, not at first. From the moment those eyes locked on me, my life changed. Whether I knew it or not doesn’t change that.”

Greg licked away a tear. “And I blew it. Blew it big time in every way that counted. Put myself first, my own feelings and wants before his.”

Though his voice cracked, Greg held his head high, eye contact firm.

Marcus laughed. Against Greg’s heartfelt sound, this harsh bark was a butterfly knife to the throat. Other men echoed it quietly. Darkly.

Marcus waved the gun. “You think we’ll just let him go because you waltzed in here and asked nicely?”

Greg shook his head. “No, sir. I’m not asking for that at all.” He sighed, looking away for the first time to glance at the door again. His pulse quickened. “I’m asking you to let me join him.”

The men mumbled in shock.

Greg held out his wrists. “Take me too. Whatever you have to do, just don’t let him be alone.”

_Let me hold him,_ every instinct demanded.

Marcus stared at him, barrel lowered. “The lengths a father will go to for his son.”

Greg grinned, weak but fiery, and the two shared a knowing look. “You’re somewhat of an expert on that, aren’t you, Marcus?”

The crunch of boots approached from behind. Marcus’ grudgingly respectful look was the last thing Greg saw before it all went dark.

* * *

“Did he just say son?” Ed lowered his rifle. “I thought Dean was home sick. What, he’s in there too?”

“No.” Jules’ stomach flip-flopped. “But Spike is.”

Ed swivelled to stare at her face on. Jules tried to communicate the secret streams of betrayal and heartbreak running underneath the smooth surface of their team. The cracks that had been there all along.

Ed closed his eyes with a sharp exhale of dread.

“Let’s go get our boys back,” he said. “I’m calling it.”

* * *

The sharp tang of blood in the air was the first thing to filter into Greg’s iffy awareness. Greg squinted, blinking away the dizziness. He knew he hadn’t been out long, judging by the sun’s position on the floor of a bare bones office. No furniture. Just four walls and a barred window.

Greg patted himself down. There was no blood on the back of his neck, just a tiny bump.

_Drugged me. Seems to be a trend. _

The cement floor seeped cold even through his track sweater. He couldn’t imagine how cold Spike must feel with all the blood lo—

“Spike!”

Greg wavered to his knees and crawled on all fours to the far wall. Spike lay in a heap, facing away from Greg on his left side. Hands weren’t bound but Greg could tell by the red blisters on his wrists that they had been.

It exposed the right side of his head and smears of red down the young man’s face and neck that would make a slasher film proud. Greg’s blood pressure erupted at the fact he couldn’t see Spike’s face. He hobbled over as fast as he could.

Greg rooted through his pockets and found a gauze pad he’d hidden there on the drive over.

“Spike, hey. Come on. Talk to me.” Greg planted himself, glad to have stopped moving, and ever-so-gently turned Spike onto his back. Spike’s eyes were closed, his skin clammy, heart rate weak but fast. Twin dots of colour lit up his white skin and purple lips.

“Oh, bud…” Greg’s face fell. “I think you’ve got the start of a nasty infection.”

The gash, torn jagged by a bullet’s path, stretched from the edge of Spike’s hairline along his temple all the way back past his ear. The bullet had quite literally burned off a strip of hair.

Over four inches long and far too deep. It was oozing, angry. He pressed the gauze to Spike’s head and taped it there.

“That should slow the bleeding. I shudder to think how much you’ve lost already.”

Greg removed his sweater to drape it over Spike’s shivering form, in nothing but a T-shirt and pants. They’d taken his boots.

“Always got to play hero, huh?” Greg talked to Spike while he lifted him up into his arms, Spike’s back to his chest. “And give us all ulcers in the process no less. I don’t know whether to be proud or fire you.”

Spike was too hot in his arms. Fevered, shaking. Greg squeezed him as hard as he dared, lowering his nose into Spike’s left shoulder.

He had a million things to say but right now, this was enough. He kept his back to the door, shielding Spike, tucked away from the world.

They rocked a little.

“L’d t’ M’rc…”

“Spike?” Greg leaned down to catch Spike’s tepid gaze, dumbfounded to see him conscious. Maybe that was a generous word. “You with me? It’s Greg.”

“L’d.”

“Still didn’t catch that. I’m sorry.” Greg tenderly cleaned the blood and gunk gluing Spike’s right eye shut. Once freed, it started to move.

Spike’s fluttering lashes made it half way open and stayed there. He gazed at Greg’s arms around him. “Lied to…th-the subject.”

Greg sifted through what he’d said. He couldn’t find any deception on his part.

“Not s’pposed to lie.”

“You heard some of that?”

Spike coughed weakly. The sharp buttons of his spine dug into Greg’s rib cage. They fit perfectly in the spaces there, and Greg hated that he’d missed this. Of course, Spike hadn’t been eating much after his father died.

The last two weeks had clearly brought that coping mechanism back.

Then Spike nodded. “Did y…you lie to gain…sympathy?”

Greg’s brow wrinkled. “Spike, I didn’t lie. Every word was the truth.”

Spike stilled, face tight. Even his shallow, panting breaths hushed.

Greg understood at once. He bundled him tighter, if that were possible, and stroked Spike’s slick forehead. “I meant what I said. Spike, I’m so sorry for pushing you away.”

Spike ducked his head.

_Not getting away that easy, kid._

Greg tugged his chin back up. His voice wobbled with emotion. “Hey, hey. You are my _primogenito_, and I was proud to tell Marcus.”

So flush against each other, Greg felt the exact moment Spike stopped breathing, the hitch in his diaphragm.

Spike’s eyes blew wide.

Those were not light words to throw around, especially in Spike’s culture. Not something you said to be trite or humorous. Family was everything to Spike, the highest honour, and Greg knew it. Something like that would be said on a father’s deathbed or during big life milestones.

Spike exhaled, ragged. His eyes darted, like he wondered if he’d hallucinated the whole thing, and Greg’s heart broke.

He shifted Spike so he was turned sideways in Greg’s right arm and Greg could slant down to look him straight in the eye. “_You_, Spike, are my firstborn. Not Dean.”

Spike leaned his full weight against Greg’s chest, floored. Greg had never seen him so speechless. A war battled in his eyes, shocked hope with pessimism. Longing with the bitter aftertaste of experience.

His voice came out very, very feeble. “You don’t hate me?”

Greg’s world spun. He touched his forehead to Spike’s. Hot to cold. “Never, Spike. I couldn’t even if I tried. These past two weeks, I’ve…I’ve been running from how much I _love_ you, and how hard that was.”

Spike didn’t cry, pale, but Greg sure did. He couldn’t seem to stop the glacier trickle from his eyes.

“Those years, before Dean came back into my life, you kept me going. You gave me hope, that even if I couldn’t have Dean, I’d still have been a good father. And then—and then Dean came back.” Greg sobbed. “And I felt guilty, like maybe you’d been a placeholder.”

Spike closed his eyes, breaths uneven.

“But that night you passed out on my couch.” Greg shook Spike lightly until he opened his eyes. Greg’s tears and Spike’s blood mingled together on Spike’s cheeks. “I realized something. And it scared me.”

Spike blinked up at him. Trusting. Devastated. Euphoric. Somehow all happening simultaneously in the cosmos of those open eyes.

Greg lost himself for a moment in the curve of Spike’s nose, the wild hair that, grown out, would look an awful lot like Greg’s father’s. The unfamiliar, Scarlatti chin and his artistic fingers that had wadded up in the collar of Greg’s shirt without him noticing.

Greg took a deep breath, the tsunami of emotion fading into clarity. Selfish smog blown away by the hurricane of understanding.

“I was confused that Dean didn’t fit inside the hole of my heart, much as I tried to make him. It was meant for my son, my child. How could he not?

“Then I realized—_you_ did. Dean has his own place, of course, but that love for you is different.”

Greg chuffed, thumb rubbing Spike’s bloody cheekbone. “You’re not a practice run for the real thing. Not a teammate I happen to be very fond of. _Mio figlio_. You’re my _son._”

Spike’s hand clenched. Greg didn’t like the white knuckles and stroked those too. Memories swirled in his boy’s eyes. Pain. Loss. Rejection.

Trust. Security. Memories of laughter and a pat on his shoulder and protecting him from his biological father.

Greg dropped to a whisper. “I wasn’t really there for Dean when he was young. So _you_ were my first experience as a father and always will be:

“I worry about you when you aren’t around. I wanted to know your goals, your dreams. Your injuries stress me out than the others—I know I’m not always objective on cases when you’re in danger, though I try to be. I yearned to deck your father sometimes.”

The ghost of a smirk lightened Spike’s face.

“It made me bitter, that I’d given you the love I could’ve given to Dean those years. Bitter at myself and I should never have taken that out on you.” Greg shook his head at himself, disgusted. “So I was scared when it hit me.”

Spike’s gaze was a thousand yards long. “W-what?”

“I thought…I thought I had to choose. That being a good father to Dean, not messing up again, meant total commitment to just him. You putting me down as your medical consent was the first real confirmation that the feelings went both ways, that I couldn’t just brush it off as my imagination or projecting.”

_Now_ Spike’s eyes welled up.

“You were more of a father to me,” he said, voice unnervingly steady, “than mine ever was, if we’re honest.”

What was left of Greg’s heart shattered with these words.

He tucked Spike’s head underneath his chin, kissing the matted strands. “I panicked, and I’m so, _so _sorry. I failed you.”

“Thought I’d overstepped.”

“Never,” Greg growled, voice hot and fierce. “You hadn’t and that’s what terrified me. I have room for both of you, and I never should have shut you out. I made the exact same mistake with you I did with Dean! I’ve lost your trust. I’ll understand if you switch teams or leave.”

They sat motionless. Greg shuddered through heavy breaths and Spike was boneless.

Then Spike hooked his arm around Greg to embrace him back, best he could with the weak limb, the one not trapped between them. Greg whimpered at the tender gesture.

_You don’t deserve it._

“Did you know,” Spike asked softly, “that in old Italian families, adopted children are often held in higher esteem than blood relatives?”

Greg pulled away to look at him. Spike was having trouble staying awake, but he smiled warmly. 

“If that spot in your life is still vacant, Greg, I’d like my old room back.”

_Greg. He called me Greg._ Spike never called him anything but boss. Ever.

It was meant to be a moment of levity but Greg had to wipe away fresh tears. “You forgive too easily.”

Spike chuckled, wincing. His eyes slipped shut. “Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, then.”

The ball in Greg’s chest grew even _bigger_, eclipsed what little airspace he had left. Greg let it, riding the saturated wave. He felt like he could climb three mountains, pumped with energy.

With _love_.

The sound of a gas canister exploded in the garage outside. It was the prelude to a barrage of harsh yells. The door to their ‘cell’ burst open and Marcus stumbled in.

“You’re my leverage to get out of here,” he spat.

Greg didn’t much care.

He could finally _breathe_!

Granted, he cared very much when Marcus shoved the gun between Spike’s eyes.

“_NO_!”


	11. Chapter 11

“That’s it, put the knife down.” said Ed behind his mask. The young man, quaking, complied. “Good choice.”

The team finished cuffing five men, on their knees, hands on the back of their heads. The youths coughed and didn’t put up much of a fuss.

Only Layton glared at Jules when she pushed him to his knees. He spit at her feet. “It’s people like you who pushed Marcus to the edge.”

“Save it for your statement,” Ed barked with a glower.

The gas dissipated quickly once Wordy got the windows open. The team removed their masks.

Jules frowned. “Where _is_ Marcus?”

A deafening gunshot answered.

* * *

It was the most reckless thing Greg had done in a twenty-two year career. Without contest.

Training went out the window.

Greg’s vision tunneled to three key blocks: Spike. Gun. Attacker.

His hand shot out for the barrel faster than it took for Marcus to blink. With the heel of his palm, Greg shoved the gun away from Spike’s lax face. He did it with such force that a bone in Marcus’ arm snapped.

The gun discharged, bullet ricocheting off the cement wall and over their heads. Greg reeled at the volume so close to his ear.

The gun clattered away. This didn’t stop Marcus, who yanked a massive hunting knife out of his boot and set it against Greg’s throat.

Greg went still, panting. Marcus pulled him towards the door, away from Spike. Spike dropped heavily, though at least this time he wasn’t facing the wall. Greg’s arms felt cold in his absence.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” Marcus snarled, broken wrist wobbly in its grip on the nape of Greg’s shirt. “When your friends open that door, you’re going to tell them to back off or I slit your jugular. Capiche?”

Greg swallowed. He tested the way it bobbed against the knife’s angle. Sloppy, but the blade would kill him. The drugs flushing from his system made him dizzy, especially with all the movement.

He’d never overpower Marcus without being gutted first.

“I hear you,” said Greg.

He resigned himself to be still, slow his heart rate.

“SRU!” Ed kicked the narrow door in. A quick sweep of his eyes and Greg could tell he’d assessed the whole situation. “Put the knife down, Marcus!”

“No!” Marcus jerked at Greg’s collar. “I deserve my freedom!”

“We can talk about that.” Ed shuffled slightly to allow Jules to edge into the room.

“Stay back!” Marcus screamed. “Don’t come in or my hand slips!”

Jules halted. She backed up, just behind Ed.

“I don’t have a shot,” she breathed. Wordy, on Ed’s other side, echoed the sentiment.

“Your father loves you,” said Greg, hoarse all of a sudden. “Don’t add murder to your rap sheet or you may never see him again.”

“I haven’t seen him in _five years_.” Marcus cut himself off with a choked sound of grief. “What difference does it make? I’d rather kill you and be free than wait another five!”

Greg met Ed’s eyes and they both lost some colour. That was the tone of someone who’d made up their mind. Who couldn’t be swayed because they saw no other option.

“My father and I will be reunited soon. He promised to take me to the lake again.”

“No, Marcus.” Ed held up a hand. He lowered his gun, to build trust. “We have him in custody. He’s going to jail too. We might even be able to get you in the same prison, so you can see each other.”

Greg couldn’t see Marcus’ face, but he felt, telegraphed through the hand in the back of his shirt, utter despair run through the boy.

“No…You’re lying!”

Ed’s face hardened. “I don’t lie to people threatening my friends, Marcus. Your father gave a full statement, confession.”

Greg knew the exact second it was over. Marcus let out a wailing breath and his grip actually relaxed.

But Greg felt the other hand tense, the one holding the blade. It bit into his skin.

Ed roared. Greg wished he had time to say goodbye.

For the second time that day, an ear-splitting shot rang in Greg’s ears. He froze. A whistle of air tickled his neck where the blade fell away.

And a body hit the floor behind him.

Greg’s gaze shot to Ed. The man looked just as stunned and his gun was still lowered.

“Wasn’t me,” he whispered.

A faint cough broke the blinding silence. All eyes whipped to Spike, propped up on one elbow. He wheezed, gun smoking in his hand, eyes unblinking on the body at Greg’s feet.

The team gawked at him, gobsmacked. Wonderstruck.

Spike was in a world of his own, that much Greg could tell. He had a soldier’s stare on Marcus’ growing pool of red and the gauntness of Spike’s face stood out more than ever. A fresh rivulet of blood snaked down his chin.

Spike shook himself. Then he noticed all the eyes on him, flushing further. “Subject down, boss.”

And he promptly keeled over.

* * *

“Just…_sleep _already.”

It shouldn’t have been funny, but Greg couldn’t stop his grin. “Do you really think I’m going to take a twelve hour nap before the doctors let us see him?”

Wordy sat back like a ruffled hen. “No. But I think it’s dumb you won’t even take a bed.”

“Well, I think it’s dumb you won’t go home to see Shelley.”

Wordy’s eyes went flinty in that rare way Greg had only seen a few times. “I’m not leaving Spike here until I know.”

Greg couldn’t agree more. Dean was staying with Clark and Sophie for the night, just in case.

“Shelley understood when I called.” Wordy’s eyes turned mischievous. “She also argued that you should sleep off the drug.”

Greg opened his eyes all the way. He unfolded his hands from his waist to clap Wordy’s knee. “I appreciate your concern but they only gave me a mild sedative. If your timeline is right, I wasn’t even out for thirty minutes.”

Lounging around the waiting area, the team refused to go home for the evening. Sam and Ed had disappeared for a supper run. Jules was reading a home reno magazine, draped half upside down in two chairs.

Three hours in, and Greg was trying not to be worried.

The doctors had assured them Spike shouldn’t need surgery so what was taking so long?

“Boss?”

Greg sat to attention, having not heard the title in a few hours since they were all off-duty and in plain clothes.

Ed stood there, looking conflicted. “Cain Harper is asking if he can see his son in ICU before county takes him to lockup.”

There was a lot to unpack in that sentence.

Wordy asked the most crucial point. He sounded flabbergasted—“ICU? Marcus made it?”

The boy barely had a pulse when EMS took him.

Ed shook his head. “They’re not sure. Spike nicked his heart. Could go either way.”

Greg’s spirit was finally at peace, even if there was a lot of work ahead. It was this calm that gave him the answer.

Wordy shook his head. “Boss? You’re not seriously considering letting him have that privilege after what his son did to Spike!”

Greg’s slow nod seemed to catch Ed off guard too. “Boss?”

“Let him in, Eddie.” Greg nodded again, to ease that vengeful fire in Ed’s eyes. “Just for ten minutes. And be nice.”

Ed walked away and waved a flippant hand. “No promises!”

“Look who I found.” Sam took Ed’s place. “I figured this was better than takeout and she insisted.”

“Shelley!” Wordy stood and embraced his wife. Their daughters hopped around, telling Sam a story about their pet hamster. “You didn’t have to come all this way.”

“For Toronto’s best?” Shelley winked at Greg. She held up a bag that smelled of chili, complete with bowls and cutlery. “It was the least I could do.”

“Can we eat now, Mommy?”

“Yeah, I’ve gotta show Sam my loose tooth!”

Sam looked thoroughly bewildered.

“Why don’t you head downstairs,” Greg suggested. “The cafeteria is still open and we’ll meet you in a minute, once Ed gets back.”

Without looking up from her magazine, Jules called sweetly. “Have fun, Sam.”

He shot her a deadly glare and she snickered.

The posse trailed away and the waiting area descended once again into its sombre cloud. Ed passed by, a cuffed Cain in tow, and then disappeared.

“You’re not going to eat?” Greg asked Jules. “We all missed lunch.”

Jules looked up from her magazine this time and Greg almost wished she hadn’t. Her eyes were filled with a righteous fury. Poisonous yet targeted.

She said absolutely nothing but Greg didn’t ask again.

“Excuse me?” A middle eastern woman in a lab coat approached them. “I’m Doctor Keshani. Could I please speak with Michelangelo’s next of kin?”

Somehow, even after all that had happened in the last twelve hours, the simple sight of Jules getting to her feet before he did shocked Greg almost more than the gunshot.

“I’m his next of kin,” said Jules coolly.

“Ah!” The doctor consulted something on a clipboard. “You must be Julianna Callaghan. Right this way.”

It took effort, Greg’s knees weak, but he darted to his feet and after Jules. “Now wait a minute! There has to be some mistake…_I’m_ Spike’s next of kin.”

“It was changed,” said Doctor Keshani. She sounded hesitant. “I’m sorry, but this is a question of decisions to be made in the event of—”

“I know what those decisions are!” Greg felt his frustration mount. “I’m his supervisor and I have the right to see him.”

Jules swung around. A hailstorm of ire thundered from her gaze, an acidic glare that stopped Greg dead in his tracks.

“No, you don’t.” Her voice quivered with rage. She thumped at Greg’s chest with a flat palm. “You don’t get to walk in there like everything is fine. He came to my doorstep in the middle of the night—injured—because he didn’t think he could tell you!”

Her volume rose at the same rate Greg’s heart plummeted.

“Jules…”

“_No_!” Her chest bucked with panting breaths. “He asked me to be his medical consent instead of you!”

A freight train slammed into Greg’s gut. His ears rang. “…Wh…_What_?”

He had assumed Jules was some sort of secondary. This…this couldn’t be happening.

Doctor Keshani quietly excused herself to go check on Spike. Greg’s eyes followed her but Jules hit him again.

“You should have seen him that night. Scared doesn’t even begin to cover it—he was _terrified_.” Her chin shook even while her eyes burned. Her voice was one octave away from a shout. “He confided in me about his father. Did you know about him? Huh?”

Tendons popped in Jules’ forehead and a vein jumped in her neck. “Did he ever tell you the truth? About how manipulative he was? How he barely lifted a finger against Spike but he didn’t have to because he drilled it into Spike’s head that his love was conditional, that if he just got it right, he’d be worth something?”

Greg’s lips shook now too.

When Jules’ voice finally hushed, it was so much worse than the yelling. “He was scared of _you_. That you were going to be a repeat of his father. That one slight mistake and you’d abandon him.”

“I told him I’m sorry.”

“Sorry doesn’t magically fix trust.”

“I know,” Greg breathed.

“Don’t you get it?” Jules’ features contorted. “His fear was right. You _did _abandon him.”

Greg bowed his head.

“You used him. Plain and simple,” Jules whispered. “When Dean came along, you threw him away. Toyed with that vulnerability. He is not disposable, boss. It’s about time you remembered that.”

Some time in the bombshell’s smoke clearing, Jules disappeared. Greg couldn’t be sure how long he stood there, nurses rushing around him, patients and families crying softly behind thin curtains.

He did the only thing he could.

He joined them, becoming another worried, weeping parent in the waiting room. Ed sat down beside him at some point.

The two of them waited in silence long after the sun set.


	12. Chapter 12

“Swelling?” Jules interrupted Keshani. Her heart raced. “On his _brain_?”

“From the infection,” Keshani confirmed. She looked sad, never a good expression on a doctor. “We’ve got him on the strongest antibiotic dose possible but we won’t know until he makes it through the night.”

_Until._ That’s the word Jules needed to hear. _Not if. When._

“Hear that, Spike?” Jules bent over him, thumbing at the dark circles under his eyes. “You just hang on and we’ll do the rest.”

It grieved her, for reasons she couldn’t quite pin down, that they’d had to shave the right side of his head for massive, crisscrossing stitches holding the folds of his scalp together. Their inky black lines looked insidious against the inflamed skin.

His brow was slippery with sweat, breaths quick and shallow. An oxygen mask helped him breathe. Jules could see the outline of his ribcage even through the gown and a thin blanket.

_Oh, Spike…_

“The blood loss is what’s working against us now,” said Keshani. “There’s fluid buildup along the side of his skull. Not a lot, but enough that we can’t let it progress further.”

Jules hated to ask, yet she found reassurance in slipping into her job persona. “Will you have to drain it?”

Keshani actually considered this. “Probably not, especially if it starts to go down on its own.”

Jules exhaled noisily. That was something, then. No surgery needed. Hopefully.

“Has he woken up since the ambulance ride?”

Keshani shook her head. “That brief period of lucidity your sergeant described was probably thanks to the cold floor they found him on. Kept his fever down, of all things.”

Jules nodded. She ran a loving hand through Spike’s hair. Someone had cleaned most of the blood out but flecks of it stained her fingernails.

“Can the team see him? They won’t go home, you know, until you let them in.”

Keshani smiled. “I used to be a combat medic. I know how teams operate, how loyal they can be.”

Jules grimaced. “You have no idea.”

“One at a time,” Keshani conceded. “Pairs if they’re quiet. He’s not going to wake up, so don’t expect to hold a conversation.”

“Noted.”

Jules thanked the doctor and took her time walking back to the waiting area. Some part of her, selfish, didn’t want anyone to intrude on the sanctuary of Spike’s room.

The better part realized they were just as broken open by this crisis as she was.

She found most of the team asleep, Wordy’s daughters curled up in his and Sam’s laps. Shelly’s head rested on her husband’s shoulder. Greg had dozed off, chin to his chest. Only Ed was awake, arms folded like the sentinel he was.

He lit up when he saw her. Jules put a finger to her lips.

“Wanna see him?” she whispered.

Ed nodded.

Of course, she should have known that a highly trained team like theirs would be too in tune with each other.

The moment Ed stood, Greg startled awake, which set off Wordy and Sam. Everyone groaned, stretching.

Then Sam spotted the relief on Ed’s face. “He’s awake?”

“No,” said Jules. “But you can visit if you want.”

She glanced at the girls and Wordy took the hint.

“Come on, sweetie, time for us to go home.” Wordy handed their youngest to Shelley.

“Wanna see Spike!”

“He makes the best fireworks.”

Everyone got a laugh out of that one. Spike’s Canada Day barbeque fireworks were legendary. And very illegal.

Jules knelt in front of them. “You can come back when Spike doesn’t look so scary, okay?”

“Scary?”

Jules and Shelley shared a look.

Shelley bounced her youngest. “Maybe once the stitches come out.”

They paled.

That settled it and Wordy was allowed to go first so he could get home. He came back, bright eyed but much more relaxed. Everyone waved the Wordsworth family goodbye.

Ed and Sam went next.

They took a lot longer than Jules expected. She was just about to stand and go after them when Sam appeared. His eyes were red. Ed followed a minute later, clapping the younger sniper on the back.

It hit both she and Greg at the same time.

Greg stood, hugging Sam in a move that surprised all of them. “Doctors say someone pressed down on the head wound shortly after it was inflicted, using pain to knock him out. There was a definite bruise, like a thumb.”

Sam’s nose wrinkled in a battle for control. “I’ve never heard him cry out like that, boss. And then in the garage, I was up a tree and I heard gunshots and I couldn’t see…”

The weight of how much Sam had carried today struck them all. Jules embraced him too, not caring how it looked.

“It’s not your fault, Sam Braddock.”

“I should’ve spoken up! At least his last conscious moments wouldn’t have been alone. He’d have known we were listening.”

Ed’s eyes darkened. “I can’t believe Marcus lived.”

Jules felt minute tremors in Sam’s limbs. “Do you hear me, Sam? You did nothing wrong today.”

“I know.” Sam sighed. “But I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep until Spike wakes up and tells me himself.”

* * *

Greg tried to go by himself, but Jules refused to leave Spike alone with him, irrational as it was.

She stood in the doorway while Greg walked over and held the tech’s hand.

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” he rasped. “No knives this time, okay?”

She made a note to ask about that night at the bar when this was all over.

Spike’s blank face upset them both. If it weren’t for the mask fogging and clearing on repeat, Jules would barely have known he was alive.

Greg took off his hat and set it on the bedside table.

Something in his face resolved. His eyes cleared for the first time in weeks, a safe harbour after the storm.

He leaned very close to Spike’s left ear—Jules stiffened—and spoke four words:

“I’m here, primogenito. Always.”

Jules had no idea what this meant but her breath caught when, not a second later…

Spike’s weak heartbeat began to thump louder, faster. Its beeps filled the room in the sweetest melody Jules had ever heard.

Greg turned to her. “Will you let me stay with him tonight?”

Jules started to protest.

“Please, Jules. Sam needs you right now. I promise, no more playing with Spike’s emotions. No more rejection.” Greg’s eyes were vulnerable, that humble, wise man she’d learned to trust. “No more running.”

Jules huffed in a world weary half laugh, half sob. “We have each other’s backs, right?”

Greg’s eyes warmed. “_Always_.”

* * *

That first night in Spike’s hospital room was one Greg never forgot as long as he lived.

The hospital staff knew him by now, after years at this job. It was thanks to this that they left him mostly alone, laying out a cot for him and gifting him a pair of sweats and a hoodie.

Spike didn’t even wake up.

But Greg laid there on his side, facing Spike while the world silenced outside this room, and discovered that just listening to Spike breathe was the most interesting sound in the world.

Especially after one am, when a nurse took him off oxygen and each breath became more audible. Stronger. Young sounding.

Years later, Greg’s mind went back to these hours whenever he was scared or uncertain.

Greg barely slept. It didn’t matter, in the end.

He wondered if this was how new mothers felt when it was just them and their baby in the nursery, listening to them _live_.

Something sacred and reverent swelled up in the room. Even Toronto traffic was muted by their vantage on the fifth floor.

During the hours when it was just him and Spike, no doctors fluttering in and out, Greg whispered to him in the dark.

He talked about his family. About how trauma led him to the bottle. Told Spike all the plans he had and the RV he’d always wanted to buy. Shared how Dean almost died when he was born because the umbilical cord had wrapped around his neck.

About long days when Greg thought another step might kill him. About how he loved watching Spike’s eyes crinkle when he was amused by something.

If he dozed off, he woke up with words on his lips.

Greg talked until he couldn’t anymore.

A silver thread knotted between Spike and Greg. So fine tuned that Greg woke at every bpm dip and every snuffle in Spike’s breathing. It was a dangerous thing, that thread. Snip it and Greg knew he would die. A walking zombie of himself.

But he let it grow, let it spool out of that ball in his chest and weave between them in ornate, diasporic shapes that left him breathless.

They looked like home. 

Greg had the cot within arm’s reach. It allowed him to reach out, when he lost his voice, and feather awed fingertips over Spike’s nose, then his long fingers.

To be responsible for something so precious…

Spike only woke once, at almost six in the morning. Greg, in a deep sleep wherein he dreamed about cold offices and holding Dean for the first time, felt a tug. He shot upright.

Spike hadn’t moved, but his eyeballs roamed wildly under his lids. Faint whimpers squeezed between his lips.

Greg was out of the cot in an instant.

“Hey, Spike. You’re having a bad dream. It’s okay. We got out and you’re safe now. Spike?”

Greg cupped Spike’s cheek. It wasn’t as hot as before but the lack of sweat worried him. “Come on, buddy. I know you feel trapped wherever your mind is. If you just open your eyes, you’ll be free. I promise.”

Spike’s head jerked to the side. Greg quickly caught it between his hands before Spike could bang his stitches against the rail.

“Spike.” Greg’s gut tugged again. “_Michelangelo_.”

Spike’s eyes snapped open. Fever glazed, they slurred around the room. He squinted in the pre-dawn dim, his pupils blown absolutely huge. The effect was only worsened by a bright sheen over his eyes.

“M’rcus is comin,’ boss.”

“No,” Greg whispered, stroking Spike’s cheekbones with his thumbs. “We’re in the hospital. You saved my life, remember? Thank you for that. Bloody impossible shot. Even Ed was impressed.”

Spike blinked. His brain visibly worked. Greg was dying to know what confused him so much.

“Spike?”

“I shot Marcus.”

“Yeah, buddy, you did.”

At the words, Spike’s head fought Greg’s hands. Greg shushed him, surprised by the man’s strength when he was so weak. Spike panted in distress.

“Blood…gun…boss! Where’d y’ go?”

Greg quickly sat on the edge of the bed. He didn’t give thought to monitors and wires—he grabbed Spike from behind and pinned his writhing arms to his sides. An alarm blared.

“I’m right here, Spike. No blood. No more attackers. I promise.”

“Lew!”

Greg fought for control of his emotions. “Lew’s not…in any pain, Spike. You were a good friend ‘til the end.”

“B’mb plate.”

“No,” Greg whispered, wishing with every last ounce of his soul that he could siphon Spike’s pain. “No bomb plate. Lew’s okay now.”

Spike’s struggles ceased. He wheezed, head limp. Greg carefully tipped it back against his shoulder. A doctor poked her head in and Greg snapped his fingers into a pointing index. She rushed out with a nod.

The alarm stopped.

Spike jolted. “Gr’g?”

“I’m right here.” Greg squeezed him once to prove it. “We’re safe. No one’s going to hurt you.”

Spike turned his head. His eyelashes tickled Greg’s neck. “Y’ stayed.”

Greg chuffed. “Of course I did. No place I’d rather be.”

“Thought…” Spike’s eyes drooped. “Thought I’d imagined what you said.”

Greg closed his eyes too. As Spike’s breathing calmed, he patted Spike over his heart. “That spot’s always been yours in my life and always will be. You hear?”

He couldn’t be sure Spike had, but before Spike fell asleep, his lips tilted upwards.


	13. Chapter 13

Greg signed out for the night, a coffee to match Ed’s in his other hand. He waved goodnight to Winnie and followed Ed to the parking garage.

“Dean’s over at the hospital now?” Ed asked.

Greg rolled his eyes. “Kept badgering me until I let him visit. Never mind the fact Spike can only stay awake for twenty minutes at a time.”

“It’s been two days,” Ed endorsed Dean’s choice. “Of course he’s worried.”

Slinging his coat on, Greg gave Ed the _look_. Only slightly ruined by his grin. “And Spike’s fever only broke _yesterday_.”

Ed glanced away. If Greg didn’t know any better, he’d call that expression guilt.

“Wait a minute.” Greg tapped his friend’s chest. “How did you know Dean was…? Oh, tell me you didn’t.”

Ed threw his hands up. “Clark insisted!” Over Greg’s moan, he got defensive. “What was I supposed to do, tell my son to stop being compassionate for other people?”

“More like a mother hen,” Greg grumbled.

“I wonder where he gets that from.”

“Watch it.” Greg wagged his finger. Ed cackled. “I can’t believe my son is over there right now with yours harassing Spike.”

He thought about that and then met Ed’s eyes.

“Conspiring,” Greg corrected.

Ed nodded. “Conspiring. Definitely.”

“Did you know he agreed to teach Dean how to hotwire a car?”

Ed smiled full on now, teeth and all. “You never know when he might need it.”

“That’s what Spike said!”

At this, Ed lost it. The news of Spike’s fever breaking, of him being out of the woods infection-wise, had been just what the team needed. They were all more at ease.

This was their first day back but Holleran, mercifully, hadn’t cleared them for field work until Spike returned or at least until he vetoed a temporary replacement.

They decided to carpool in Ed’s truck, thankful for it being after five and the lack of traffic.

The scene, when Greg and Ed finally arrived, was not the heart-to-heart emotional time Greg expected.

“Are you kidding me?” Greg couldn’t hold back his surprise. “Really?”

The boys, including Spike, whipped their heads up. Eyes big enough to rival deer in headlights. The effect was only heightened by a bulky bandage around Spike’s head.

Dean sat at Spike’s feet, Clark in a nearby chair. Spike was still pale, hands shaky, but he was fully alert today. A nice change from the incoherent conversations Ed and Greg had been holding with him.

Ed leaned against the door frame. His eyes twinkled. “We should’ve known.”

“It’s not what it looks like,” Dean blurted.

“No.” Ed laughed. “It’s exactly what it looks like.”

Greg was still boggled. “Where did you get a deck of vintage cards? How do you even know how to _play_ poker?”

The two boys side-eyed Spike.

Spike bit his lip. “Uh…sorry?”

Ed peeked around his son’s shoulder. “That’s a good hand. You should go all in.”

Clark groaned. “Da-_ad_.”

“The real question.” Ed spoke over his son’s protest. “Is what are you playing for? I don’t see any chips or money here.”

“Ed?” Greg pretended to look serious but his smile betrayed him. “You’re encouraging this?”

“Poker is a time-honoured bonding tradition.”

Greg shook his head. “Gamblers start young these days.”

“Welcome to dare poker,” said Spike. He pointed to a plastic cup next to his knee. Strips of paper were folded up inside. “Whoever loses has to pick a challenge.”

Dean turned beet red. “I still can’t believe you made me buy a _single grape_ from the cafeteria.”

Spike snickered along with Ed. “It’s not my fault you have a terrible poker face.”

“Now _that’s_ a time honoured Parker tradition,” said Ed, ribbing Greg with his elbow.

“Hey now!” Greg put both hands on his hips. “My whole job is being open with people! Excuse me for being good at it!”

“Don’t worry.” Spike nudged Dean’s leg with his toe under the blanket. “I’m not that great either, to be honest. Clark—once he finally gets the hang of this—”

“Hey!”

“—Is going to whoop us both silly.”

Greg pulled up a chair next to Clark, heartened to see the banter and Spike’s face free of tension. His eyes still rarely opened all the way, breaths laboured, but he looked content.

Ed noticed it too. The sniper gripped the nape of Spike’s neck, where his left shoulder met it. He didn’t say anything, letting a fond gaze communicate his relief that Spike was okay.

Spike reached up, gripping that hand back.

“Hell of a shot. I’m proud to call you my teammate.”

“I’d say anytime.” Spike swallowed. “But I really don’t want a repeat of Marcus.”

“Agreed.” Ed pulled away to look at Clark. “You done losing so we can go?”

“Actually…”

Clark splayed out a royal flush on the mattress to the tune of Spike and Dean’s griping.

Ed beamed. “Told you it was a good hand.”

“What’s our punishment?” Dean asked miserably. “You pick, Spike. I can’t look.”

Spike made a show of digging through the cup, doing it just long enough that the boys started to complain and—lightly—shove him until he caved.

“Alright, alright!” With a flourish, Spike peeled open the paper. A wicked grin licked across his face. “Dean, I think this one is for you.”

Dean took the offered paper, spluttered, and threw the cup at Clark’s smirk. “You wrote it!”

Clark stuck his tongue out like he was all of five years old while zipping up his coat. “You lost, so sing Spike his lullaby!”

Dean flopped onto his back while the adults laughed and Spike cast him a pitying look. “You downloaded an Eagles record on your phone just to play it for me. We’ll call that even.”

* * *

The second time Greg came back, from a bathroom break, they really were having a heart-to-heart.

Sort of. A one-sided version, anyway.

Dean had somehow wormed up beside Spike, both on their backs staring up at the ceiling. Greg knew he’d never have felt comfortable doing it if Clark and Ed had been there. Ed had agreed to come back in the morning to pick up Greg and Dean.

Spike was ashen, quivering. A nurse finished flushing out the wound around his stitches, which had been loosened for the procedure.

Greg wanted to be mad that they’d done it without letting him be there, but he realized he wasn’t needed. 

Spike had been given a local anaesthetic around the area, though it was clear he still felt the pressure of all the puss and grime being forcibly pushed out. He started to sweat, a cold one judging by his shivering.

Dean talked in a melodic, kind voice about his science project and how it felt weird to be in the same hospital room he’d stayed in during the allergic reaction—_that’s right; I hadn’t even noticed—_and all about a pretty girl in his English class he wanted to ask out.

Spike’s stare off with the ceiling tiles barely blinked, but his iron grip around the bed rail eased the more Dean talked.

“I mean, really, who else am I going to tell?” Dean tossed a hand to make his point. “Can’t tell just anyone about a girl.”

“Us only children have to stick together, huh?” Spike bit out.

Dean blinked, perplexed. “Uh…we’re not only children anymore.”

Spike dared to let go of the bed rail.

“I don’t know everything Dad said to you.” Dean flicked Spike in the ear. “But he told me enough. Face it, Spike. You’re stuck with us.”

Spike closed his eyes, a smile creeping over his face. The nurse excused herself and Spike thanked her, because it was such a Spike move to thank someone even when he was in blatant pain.

“Dean, about what happened—”

Dean’s expression grew stormy. “You know I don’t blame you for that.”

“I know, but I’m still sorry.”

“No more eggplant.”

“Right. Little brother.” Spike tested it out on his tongue. “Doesn’t sound too bad. Can I call you baby bro in front of all your friends?”

Dean’s eyes widened in horror. “Don’t you dare. That’s not becoming a thing. Ever.”

Spike warmed to his teasing. “Pretty sure there’s a clause in there somewhere about infinite embarrassing rights on my part. I help you with girls and I embarrass you in front of them. It’s a balanced system.”

“Does this mean I get to tell the team that second only to _Mythbusters_, _Gilmore Girls_ is your favourite show?”

Spike laughed. It cut off, suddenly, after a moment.

“Spike?” Dean turned his head. Greg tensed from his vantage in the hall. “Spike?”

It was too much to hope for that Spike had passed out. If anything, he seemed agonizingly in the present, eyes scrunched, a little green.

_Anaesthetic is wearing off._

He breathed in ragged puffs, noisy and uneven. Dean looked conflicted. His eyes were very young when they raked over Spike, mind racing to figure out what to do.

Greg would have called a nurse. He shifted away to do just that, to end both his sons’ torment.

“_Una mattina mi sono alzato…_”

Greg’s feet turned to stone. He hardly dared to breathe, to interrupt the wafer-thin voice and break the illusion.

But it was _real._

Greg tiptoed back to his spot. Dean had his eyes closed, hands folded at his waist, and Spike’s eyes popped open to gawk at Dean like he’d grown an extra head.

“_…O partigiano portami via…_” Dean butchered the Italian, and his singing voice wasn’t the strongest. But Spike slowly relaxed back into his spot, eyes again on the ceiling while the lullaby swam around their heads.

Greg knew he looked like an idiot, crying in the shadows of the hallway, but he didn’t care. He hadn’t known, until that very second, how much it was possible to love someone. He’d never loved them with such heat as he did in that moment.

And it didn’t go out. That fire was always lit for his sons, from then on until he breathed his last.

“_O bella ciao, bella ciao, bella ciao ciao ciao…_”

“Where did you learn that?” Spike whispered, voice thick.

Dean didn’t open his eyes. “Looked it up online. I’ve been learning Italian from the day I met you and I think Dad has too.”

“You know that’s a revolution song and not a lullaby, right?”

There was silence for a minute.

Then Dean reached down and grabbed Spike’s hand. “Maybe we need some of that around here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dare poker is a bizarre experience - you hate it once you're in it (forced to eat a tomato covered in toothpaste...I still get shivers) but once the game's over you keep wanting to play again. So...a super fun, low budget recommendation, I guess?


	14. Chapter 14

“Why the long face?” Greg dipped his head to catch Spike’s eye. “You’re going home today!”

Spike finished slipping on his shoes. He looked small in the wheelchair. The wan hollows of his cheekbones hadn’t diminished any, even after a week of consistent nutrients and then solid meals here.

If anything, Greg’s words deepened creases in Spike’s forehead.

He wouldn’t make eye contact. “Is Marcus still alive? Did I kill him?”

“Oh…” Greg paused too, then slumped into the worn visitor’s chair to be at eye level. “Spike, Marcus is in ICU downstairs. He may never make it out. Your shot caused a tear in the pericardium, the lining of his heart.”

“Surgery?” Spike asked, after digesting this.

“They did, yeah, to repair the damage. Now it’s a waiting game. He’s a miracle, quite frankly. But he’s only conscious and lucid for minutes at a time.”

“He’s not out of the woods?”

“No. His heart could give out any second.” Greg watched the younger man closely, how his mouth tightened. Why?”

Spike unfurled to attention. “I want to see him.”

Completely caught off guard, Greg leaned forward to place a hand on Spike’s knee. “Are you sure? He looks even worse than you.”

Spike didn’t take the bait. He looked Greg dead in the eye—“Please.”

That settled it instantly. Greg crumbled with that one word and pondered whether it would be a new trend.

“Okay, buddy. I respect your choice.” He wheeled Spike down the hall for the elevators. “But no standing from this chair.”

“Deal.”

“And you keep the wool sweater on.”

“Deal, easy. I feel like I’m always freezing.”

Greg wasn’t dumb enough to think this was an open-and-shut ending. Spike still had nightmares, still trembled and wavered when he walked. Still anaemic, which caused said walking problems.

But when Greg tipped down, he mirrored Spike’s smile.

In most ways, Greg and Spike’s relationship hadn’t changed one bit. They were still constable tech wonder kid and supervisor sergeant. Same effortless banter and shared sense of humour.

Yet with Greg’s open declaration of these feelings, _instincts_, inside him, he sensed a shift. Subtle, but present.

Like the abrupt revelation that his current unease came from not being able to see Spike’s face unless he bent down. An unsatisfactory vantage, as Ed would say.

Greg had assured Spike this wouldn’t change their behaviour at work. Same objectivity.

And it wouldn’t.

However, the thought of pulling that off towered over him, how much more effort it would take now. It was a mountain stretching all the way to the moon and he was expected to climb it.

“Boss?” Spike twisted. “I think you passed him.”

“Oh.” Greg halted, pulling a U-turn. “Right. Sorry.”

They glided inside room two-eighteen and Spike lost some colour just looking at Marcus, hooked up to all the monitors, chest a macabre mesh of bruising and staples. His left arm was in a cast, thanks to Greg.

“I don’t regret it,” said Spike quietly.

“What, Spike?” Greg rested his elbows on the wheelchair handles. “Shooting him?”

Spike nodded. “It saved your life. I’d do it again.”

Greg believed him. Spike was a good officer and the best bomb tech this city had seen in two decades.

When Spike swallowed, gazing at Marcus’ still face, Greg was shaken by the reminder of how _young_ Spike was. Late twenties. It made Greg feel old and the weight of keeping him safe that much heavier.

These two youths weren’t that far apart in age.

Hell, Spike was only _eleven years _older than Dean. It sounded like a lot but it wasn’t, not at this job.

Spike was the youngest on their team and the youngest SRU member. Period. He’d graduated high school early and therefore gotten his spot in the Academy early too, before he was even legal. In his first year on the force, there were some who thought he shouldn’t be there.

Now, Greg couldn’t fathom Team One without him.

So wrapped up in these thoughts, Greg missed the first part of what Spike said to Marcus.

He talked in short, halting tones that Greg, for once, couldn’t decipher.

“I know you might not make it,” said Spike. “But that’s not why I’ll keep your secret.”

_Secret? What is he…?_

Spike didn’t seem to care that Marcus wouldn’t technically hear any of this. His eyes were in that head space again, a world of his own that Greg could just barely grasp.

“I figured it out, Marcus.” Spike balled up a piece of the mattress in his fist. “Your father got it wrong. All those men in the garage—they knew you.

“You weren’t found with drugs in your system at seventeen because you _weren’t _on drugs. But your father needed money, didn’t he, Marcus? You were a low income household and he was struggling.”

Greg was proven wrong the second time that day.

Marcus’ eyes slid open. Walnut brown blinked at the flood of light and this young man who’d shot him.

Spike set his jaw. “You’re not innocent at all. You couldn’t face your father and tell him the truth about that day.”

Marcus made a choking sound inside the oxygen mask. He weakly shook his head.

“You _were_ working with the drug ring.” Spike lips turned down in a grieved twist. Greg didn’t understand why this was hitting him so hard. “As a runner. You needed money, so your friend Layton let you in to do deliveries around the city.”

Marcus closed his eyes and then opened them again in place of a nod.

Greg stood there, blown away. The cop part of his mind knew he should be writing this down but he decided to grant Spike’s wish.

Cain Harper didn’t have to know and neither did the courts. If he survived, Marcus would be going to prison for much worse crimes anyway. He’d served his time for drug running.

“You scared me at first,” Spike admitted. Greg saw the memory of that excruciating pain flare before his eyes. “You took me for leverage, I get it. But you seemed to be running from your father too.”

Marcus blinked again.

“I know how that feels,” Spike’s quiet voice cut like a razor. Slaughtering before you’ve even felt the pain. “I know what it’s like to not be able to face your father’s hopes because you haven’t lived up to them.”

A tear rolled down the end of Marcus’ nose.

“To hear his excited voice and know that he’ll just be disappointed. But you can’t take it back.” Spike’s knuckles went translucent from his clenched grip. “You can’t be what he wants. You’ve made your choice and maybe you regret it and maybe you don’t.”

Spike swiped a hand under his nose. “But you are what you are. And all you want is for him to be happy with _that_.”

Harper’s oxygen mask fogged with a sob.

Greg didn’t stop Spike, didn’t order him to relax. He just reached down and set a hand on Spike’s shoulder.

_I’m here._

Spike’s voice steadied. “Marcus, I’ve been given a second chance and so how can I not offer the same to you? Tell your father who you are. Maybe not all the details, but at least that you tried to help him all those years ago. Why you did it.”

Marcus gazed at Spike and tapped the white knuckles.

“From one son to another, I forgive you, Marcus.” Spike flipped his hand around so it was palm up and their fingers touched. “Make it right while you still can.”

Marcus blinked once. Then again—this time his eyes stayed closed. The heart monitor beeped steadily on and Spike wilted in the chair, spent.

Greg wheeled him out, loathe to let go of his shoulder.

“Can we arrange a phone call to the prison for him, Greg?”

Greg’s heart missed a few beats, as it always did on the sporadic occasions when Spike used his name.

“Sure. Cain gets one a week so that should be easy.” Once alone in the elevator, Greg locked the chair and knelt down.

“Boss?”

Greg pulled Spike in for an embrace, best he could around the chair. His chest buzzed with pride. “The world doesn’t deserve you, Spike. You have the biggest heart of anyone I’ve ever met and do you know who I think lost the most in this situation?”

Spike shook his head.

“Your father, if you’ll allow me to say it. He missed out. So much.”

Spike didn’t respond, other than to shyly wrap his arms around Greg’s neck. His stitches brushed Greg’s cheek. Greg closed his eyes, savouring the feel of Spike’s lungs expanding.

_Alive. You got him out alive and he got you out alive._

The elevator dinged for their floor and Greg stood. “Come on. Let’s go home.”

Spike made a face. “Can’t imagine getting up the stairs in my apartment. That’ll be fun.”

“Not your apartment.” Greg huffed, offended at the very thought. “You’re on strict orders to be supervised until the stitches come out and you’re not anaemic. Those iron pills should help.”

“Home.”

“Yeah, Spike. _Home_.”

Greg pretended not see Spike’s watery eyes or the way he mouthed it to himself the whole drive over.

* * *

It was the faintest creak, barely there. He wasn’t even dreaming anything. A comforting blanket of fuzzy grey nothing held him under, in the womb-like depths of dead sleep.

Still, at the noise, he bolted upright. His hand clamped around a gun on the bedside table before he’d even opened his eyes.

When he did, he spotted the silhouette in his doorway and instantly deflated. The bushy waves could only belong to one person. He put down the gun—which turned out to be a water bottle.

“Sorry I woke you,” Dean whispered.

Spike laid back, waving his comment off and the boy over in one. Despite the guest bedroom’s pitch black interior, Dean’s wide eyes shone.

Spike’s heart clenched. “Nightmares again?”

Dean sighed, answer enough. Spike flipped open the covers and it was a testament to how frightened Dean was that he crawled in without shame. Last time there’d been comments about his manliness and “don’t tell Clark.”

_Must have been a bad one. A noisy one._

“Third one this week.” Dean settled into the now-familiar place at Spike’s side, both on their backs. Warmth seeped into Spike’s ribs from the teen’s bony elbow. “He still doesn’t know we hear him?”

“_You _hear him,” said Spike. “And no. He thinks we’re oblivious.”

Dean said nothing. Through that elbow, Spike felt the boy’s shuddering start up. It was violent, though Dean tried to stifle the shakes.

It was also an immediate red flag.

“Hey now.” Spike rolled onto his right side, wincing when his stitches grazed the pillow. “It’s okay. We’re safe. We’re alright.”

When this failed, Spike rested a palm on the boys sternum. Hesitant.

He was learning that Dean rivaled his father for tactile instincts, how much he enjoyed casual affection. But Spike had only really known him for a few months and he wasn’t sure if it would be welcome.

Relief zipped through him when Dean relaxed, movements not so pronounced. He was still shaky, but they stopped almost altogether when Spike rubbed a quick circle on his chest.

“I’m here, man.”

“I know.” Dean still wouldn’t close his eyes, however, and Spike felt that fretting for a younger person rise up in him again. He’d been trying to temper the brand new instinct, no easy task. “My mom works a lot.”

Blinking at this non-sequitur, Spike’s hand moved to Dean’s head. He swept a curl out of the boy’s eyes. “Okay. Did you often come home to an empty house?”

Dean nodded under his hand. “Yeah. I thought here it might be different. Dad works _less_ but…”

Spike suspected where he was going with this. “But they’re weird hours. We’re unpredictable.”

Dean was quiet.

Then he took a noisy breath in and held it. Spike poked at his nose until he let it out.

“It’s just been a really great, having you here,” said Dean at last. “There’s always someone home and Dad has trouble letting himself be open sometimes.”

_Unlike you_, went unsaid but Spike heard it.

Spike went soft, from his throbbing stitches down to his toes. He marveled that he hadn’t felt this sense of _family_ since he was a child.

“We’re both coming in from the cold,” he whispered.

He and Greg were becoming sensitive to how lonely Dean had been for years, how touch starved he was. They all were, really.

Greg admitted to Spike one night that Dean’s mother could be taciturn. She wasn’t the most demonstrative; he got all that from Greg.

Dean smiled in the dark, even though Spike knew he didn’t understand the words completely. His dirt-stained fingers—thanks to an earlier soccer game—found Spike’s hoodie and twisted into the fabric.

They breathed in silence for nearly thirty minutes.

Spike waited until Dean’s blinking slowed down. Until his matching brown eyes disappeared behind heavy lids.

Gently disentangling himself, Spike slipped out the other side of the bed and checked to make sure Dean hadn’t stirred.

Spike closed the door and padded for the stairs. Light shone down the entry hallway, the oven light over the stove.

He began to shiver, despite the two pairs of socks, fleece sweats, and college sweater. Spike had started tuning out the incessant discomfort. He’d only been home from the hospital four days, that fact hitting him now with a wave of dizziness.

He swallowed his pride and held the railing in both hands coming down the stairs.

A head was bowed over the kitchen table.

“Boss?”

Greg started, turning around and hopping to his feet. “Spike! You shouldn’t be walking around!”

He manhandled Spike into a chair. Spike rolled his eyes but he leaned heavily on Greg and was thankful to sit down.

“_I’m_ not supposed to be up?” Spike raised a brow. “You’re the one on duty first thing in the morning.”

Greg plastered on a chipper smile while resuming his seat. “Got thirsty.”

Spike eyed the drink. Just milk.

Greg rubbed at a scratch over his eye.

“Greg?”

The man startled again, eyes shooting up to Spike’s.

Spike struggled for how to broach this. “In a bizarre turn of events, my nightmares have all but disappeared since I got out of the hospital. Something in my subconscious knows I’m safe here.”

“That’s great, Spike. I’m glad to hear it.”

“…And yours have gotten worse.”

Greg drew back. He adopted that scrutinizing expression Spike had seen every day on the job for the last five years.

Spike kept his face open, letting him read what he wanted.

“Dean heard me?” Greg guessed. The boy’s room sat between theirs.

“You cry out, boss.”

Greg sighed sharply. “I didn’t want him to know. Or you.”

Spike said nothing, just leaned forward to press on that invisible bubble of comfort zone space. Greg stared into his cup, thumb spinning a slow circle around the rim. His skin was greyer than normal. Grit stained the corners of his eyes.

His voice came out in a croaking whisper. “I keep dreaming that I didn’t shove the gun away from you in time.”

Spike mirrored the man’s agonized expression.

“It was a split second, Spike. If my reflexes had been _half a second_ late, I’d be arranging your funeral right now.”

Spike’s wound ached with the tightening of his face. “But you didn’t, boss. You saved my life. I wasn’t even really awake for that. Didn’t open my eyes again until Ed started shouting. Good ‘ole tactical training.”

Greg didn’t go for the attempt at humour. He shook his head, lost in a movie reel of what ifs.

A tear plinked into the milk. Spike panicked at the sight and latched onto Greg’s forearm. “You _didn’t_. You protected me.”

“What about next time?” Greg finally spun around and the naked heartbreak in his eyes almost made Spike wish he hadn’t. “Huh? What about the next time your life is in my hands?”

Spike wanted to promise him there wouldn’t be a next time. But they were both better cops than that. They knew the end of their stories before they’d even been written.

Something blossomed inside Spike’s chest, petals unfolding to sweep at the edge of his heart, his lungs.

_Hope. You’re not alone now._

He said it with unshakable conviction—

“Then you’ll be there.”

Greg’s face contorted.

“That’s the most important thing.” Spike punctuated his words with a push to Greg’s arm. Limp with emotion, the man jostled. “It doesn’t matter what happens after—the best thing you can do in someone’s life is to _show up_.”

Spike’s eyes fizzed with verve and possibilities and a future before them.

“And you did! You’ve already done the hardest thing, Greg. It’s more than I can say of my blood family.”

Greg braced his forehead on his fist. Spike’s hand shifted to his shoulder with that grace of close family, the clenched grip that came with mutual concern.

“Don’t you get it? I put my life in your hands _every day_. Every time I’m called out of that truck. And you’ve never failed. But you’re not doing this alone anymore. Let us help you.”

Greg sniffed. “I can do that.”

Spike chuckled, weak with relief. “You’d better.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love this dumpster fire of a story. It made laugh. It made me legit cry. I am content. Hope you enjoyed the ride as much as I did.

'And I know you claim  
That you're alright  
But fix your eyes on me  
I guess I'm all you have  
And I swear you'll see the dawn again.

Relate to my youth  
Well, I'm still in awe of you  
Discover some new truth  
That was always wrapped around you.'

"Guiding Light" ~ Mumford and Sons

The end of that second week at work, without Spike, Greg came home to a house _bursting_ with life.

Well…

Life and “Mr. Blue Sky.”

The Electric Light Orchestra song blared in his ears when he opened the door in happy, obnoxious rhythms. Wires were strewn over the table and flour was positively _everywhere_ and Dean somehow sang over it all.

Terribly, mind you. But with confidence, which counted more in Greg’s book.

Favouring caution over speed, Greg shuffled into the kitchen. A black box hid among the carnage.

He gasped. “Is that my WiFi router?!”

Spike appeared around the corner. Greg did a double take to see him in a shower cap.

Spike called over the music, “Oh no, boss, I popped that open hours ago and fixed it. Your internet speed is much faster now.”

For the first time, Greg questioned leaving a bored tech prodigy in his home. He was like a zoo animal who needed constant stimulation.

And if he didn’t get it—he’d make it himself.

Dean followed a moment after, face covered in flour. It was in the dips of his curls and his eyelashes and dimples framing his lips.

Spike had only a slight dusting across his shirt in the shape of hand prints. He wore gloves, gripping a pair of wire cutters.

“Dean is helping me practice defusing the new A217 model bomb for my re-qualifying test!” Spike yelled.

Greg eyed a plastic sandwich baggie attached to all the wires, blasted to high heaven with flour strewn around it. Their ‘bomb.’ “You failed, I take it?”

“Of course not. I just threw some in Dean’s face because it was fun.”

Greg flashed a quick look at Dean, to see how he felt about all this. He’d been an only child his whole life; Greg worried the novelty of having a constant companion might wear off.

But Dean shoved Spike and honest-to-God _giggled._

Not in his entire life had Greg experienced a moment of such intense happiness. With that, he knew they might be okay and that whatever came next, they’d get through it.

Greg pointed at the shower cap. “Does that protect your stitches?”

Spike frowned. “Yeah…why?”

“You know my job is assessing threats, including those against my family.”

Dean paused now too, blinking. It left little white spider web lines along his cheeks. The sight of their young eyes, gazing wonderingly at him, made Greg wanted to grab them both and hug them until he couldn’t breathe.

Instead, he moved towards the table. 

“Can’t let that slide,” said Greg.

Spike realized what he was doing a second too late. “No—!”

Greg’s first handful of flour smacked Spike square in the nose. It rained over them in a white haze to the gorgeous sound of Dean’s shrieking laughter.

Spike tried to glare at Dean but could barely keep a straight face between sneezes. “You think that’s funny?”

“Yeah, I—Spike, no! We have to gang up on Dad!”

Spike didn’t listen to him, rubbing flour all over his hair. Greg snatched up the flour bag before Spike could and ignored the squawked protests to barricade himself behind the open fridge door.

“Not fair, boss! You can’t hog the ammunition!”

Greg was so focused on Spike that he didn’t see Dean creeping up behind him. His shirt was yanked away from his neck and filled with two handfuls of flour.

Spike high-fived Dean. “Nice!”

“Alright.” Greg dusted himself off. “That’s it. You’re going down.”

The boys shot each other a look and then it was a free-for-all to see who could steal the most flour from Greg’s bag and chuck it at each other. Greg watched his kitchen become a war zone.

Strange, then, that he couldn’t stop grinning.

Shots were thrown without precision—except for that one-in-a-million handful straight to Spike’s mouth. He spit it out, promising retribution on Greg in the form of flour in his shoes. Greg fought him off with a slipper.

The doorbell chose that horrid minute to ring. The boys froze and Greg decided, as the only functioning adult in this situation, to do the sensible thing.

He opened it.

Nothing said reality check like a beautiful woman in a red cocktail dress. Especially when said woman had been away for the past month.

For some reason, the sight only made Greg grin wider.

“I know I’m early for our date, but I just…” Marina’s eyes landed on the powder carnage.

Her eyes took in all three, covered head-to-sock in flour: Spike on his knees with a pillow for a shield, Dean hoarding the flour bag prize to his chest, Greg beaming.

Her jaw dropped. A few heartbeats of stunned silence reigned. Greg figured if she could get past this craziness, they might really have a future together.

Then Spike said, as only he could—

“Just keeping the peace.”

Marina laughed until she cried.

* * *

The second time the doorbell rang, the next day, Jules stood on the steps. She and Greg did a double take at each other.

Jules circled a hand. “I…just…uh…”

Spike smiled from his spot at the table. “I invited her, boss.”

Greg turned to him. “Oh, really? Didn’t care to share that with me?”

“Nope.”

It was a Saturday and Greg dutifully ushered her in, offering tea. Jules was stiff but polite. “I’m good, boss.”

Greg sat down across from her, next to Spike, and pinned her with a long look. “Are we?”

“I shouldn’t have yelled at you, that night in the hospital,” said Jules.

Spike looked between them. He knew something had gone down, had seen it in the way the pair interacted when he visited the team that week. It had been a happy reunion—minus Sam’s tearful and completely unnecessary apology—but the two were frosty.

“No.” Greg worried at his lip with a top tooth. “I deserved it.”

“Maybe. But I’m still sorry.”

“So am I.”

Spike glanced at Jules. “If that’s settled…”

Removing a folded sheet of paper from his pocket, Spike set it before her.

She read it and her eyes grew bright. The memory of that two-hour long confession between them on the porch swing still stung, especially in light of this. Greg spied the silent interaction but stayed silent.

Spike addressed Jules head on and with complete deference to her authority in this situation. He pointed to Greg. “Do you trust him?”

Jules nodded. “Of course.”

“Do you trust him with _me_?”

She wavered this time. Spike’s gut dropped into his shoes but if she said no, he’d let her make the final call.

“He’s not my father,” Spike whispered. Memories flashed before his eyes. “He won’t be cruel or harsh or watch me nearly drown or shove me in a closet or any of that.”

Greg stood from his chair in shock but Spike waved him back down without looking away from Jules.

He tapped the paper. “Do you agree to this?”

Greg ran an unsteady hand down his mouth. “What’s going on, Spike? Why have you called us both here?”

“He’s made amends,” Spike said, still addressing Jules. “And now you both have with each other. Please let me do this.”

“You don’t really need my permission.” Her voice came out more level than Spike expected, given her expression. “It’s your decision.”

Spike shook his head. “No, it’s not. Not after what I told you. You held the other end of the harness that kept me from going over the metaphorical edge that night and if you’re going to share the weight, you have to be complicit.”

Understanding passed over Greg’s face.

“Spike, are you sure?” Greg touched Spike’s arm. “You took me off as your medical consent for a good reason. I deserved it. Don’t feel like you have to put me back on or take Jules off.”

“I’m not,” said Spike. “I want you both to share it. Equal decision making rights, should I go brain dead or something.”

Greg’s and Jules’ faces both tensed. Not so flippant about it as he was, though Spike could see Jules start to cave when Greg looked at her.

To others, consent or next of kin was a little thing. A precaution they never had to worry about.

Not at their jobs, not with all the trauma every single member of Team One had suffered through, either from their childhoods, in the field, or both. Every one of them had a slight case of post traumatic stress and decisions like life support or DNR could be thrust upon them at any time.

“Please, Jules.” Spike reached across to take her hand. “Will you let him sign it?”

Jules stunned them both by moving out of Spike’s grasp.

“Jules? Please, I…”

But then she stood and rounded the table. “Get in here.”

Spike rose as well, falling into her arms. They clung to each other in the way only blood brothers could. Arms a brace to keep the other upright, heartbeats thumping together in a synchronous conversation.

“Sign it, boss,” Jules gasped out. “We can’t do this alone. That’s what you’re always saying, Spike, right?”

Spike smiled into her shoulder. “You got it.”

Greg’s pen scratched and then he stood. “I promise, Jules, I won’t let anyone hurt him like that again. On my life.”

Jules punched Greg’s shoulder and then pulled him in. “I know.”

* * *

The hair never did grow back.

A bullet’s razed path would be memorialized in the mangled strip of scar tissue on Spike’s head for life.

Hair grew thick around it, hiding the white line, but when Spike’s bedhead was especially bad or when the wind blew just right, like now, Greg could see it. The starting nub of its track peeked out before November gusts parted Spike’s hair fully on the right side and it glared by the fading evening light.

He’d re-qualified with flying colours, even the psych evaluation, and after two months back, the team had settled.

Still, Greg was edgy when their gunman came out of the restaurant, aiming a rifle at Sam and Spike. So was Ed, on his stomach next to him on the command truck roof; he made an audible sound of displeasure and bared his teeth. Sam shouted for the man to surrender.

Instead, the subject swore and raised his weapon. 

Straight at Spike’s forehead.

Greg’s gut _yanked._

He fired off a shot before his lungs could finish exhaling, even though he wasn’t technically sierra.

Spike blinked at the body before his feet, the face absolutely blown away. Blood spattered his vest. The tech opened his mouth, closed it, then tried again.

“What?” He scoffed in bewilderment. “Did all three of you shoot him?”

Greg was surprised by that one too and side eyed Ed’s smoking rifle.

Sam didn’t look the least bit remorseful. “Yes.”

Greg chuckled. “This’ll be a story for SIU. Staten’s going to love it.”

Ed tipped his head. He closed one eye to peer through the scope again and grinned at whatever he saw.

Greg spotted it a moment later—Sam wiping some of the blood off Spike.

They were cleared quicker than Greg expected. But when the investigators—and Spike—weren’t looking, Staten caught Greg’s eye with a knowing gaze and nodded. Even the immovable man softened when he saw Spike.

_He has that affect on people_. It was like a superpower Spike didn’t even realize he possessed.

Pride flared in Greg’s chest.

“So.” Spike pulled a wool sweater on over his head while walking beside Greg to the locker room. “We’re still on for tonight? My place?”

“We sure are.”

“Awesome! I’m making homemade linguine.”

Greg smiled. “Dean’s even bringing Mira, that girl from his English class.”

Spike clapped his hands together, eyes mischievous. “Ooohhh. I’ve got embarrassing sleep-talking stories ready to go. You bring the baby pictures!”

Greg couldn’t hold back his laughter. “That’s how we’re playing Dean’s first ‘bring the girlfriend home to meet the family’ experience?”

“You better believe it!”

It started like this.

FIN

**Author's Note:**

> Written February 2019. 
> 
> Listening/inspiration song for this story: "Guiding Light" ~ Mumford and Sons


End file.
